Cherish
by ugahill
Summary: The Winchester brothers head to the sleepy town of Carino in pursuit of a killer doll. Or is it? Was the death of a local women merely a strange coincidence? And what happens when one brother decides to abandon the hunt?
1. Chapter 1: Preface

_Wow…it seems like a long time since I wrote anything new. It has been a long time! Anyways, I starting working on this little Supernatural fic, and it turned out to be quite fun to write! Those Winchester Boys…they're good material, yes. And not too hard to daydream about. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this story!_

The town of Cariño, California was small; a remote hamlet in a world of modern conveniences. The people who lived there enjoyed the solitude; most of them had enjoyed it their entire lives, and had no desire to join the 'real world.' The few who did were usually gone by the second year, and the young people who sought greater things never returned, when they'd left for college or the city.

It was an old, quiet haven, full of traditions and customs that were supposed to have died away decades ago. Visitors enjoyed the remoteness, a weird, strange void in their contemporary world.

Patty Amly had moved here only a year ago, after her husband had died in an automobile crash. She had wanted a quiet life, after the bustle in the city, where common afternoon traffic led to death and the destruction of dreams and hopes.

Cariño had been perfect.

Her two boys had a difficult time adjusting at first; there wasn't much in the way of Little League and Gameboy© Advance's latest releases. But they were getting along fine, in their small school with it's slightly more traditional curriculum, and the small neighborhood groups that hung out regularly in Centre Park, in the middle of town square.

Today Aaron and Simon were at the neighbors; they'd be over there for a while, probably engrossed in a game of _Scrabble._ Anna was staying with Patty's best friend June, who took care of the little girl free of charge.

"_It's my pleasure—reminds me of Amelia," _June would say.

Her darling little Anna, who'd been the last gift given her by Mark. One he'd never had the chance to see.

Amelia had been June's little girl, who'd died sometime before Patty moved to Cariño. June's husband had left her a little after that. She didn't know when Amelia had died, or how, and she didn't have the heart to ask.

Dusk was beginning to settle on the town, casting a rosy light over the small town grocery mart, where she worked as an Assistant Manager. It might not have been a glamorous buyer's position, like she'd had in the city, but it was enough. And she saw her kids to bed every night.

The parking lot was empty. She was used to that by now. In the city, she'd walked to her car with her keys laced between her fingers. Weapons.

In Cariño, she didn't even have to lock her car.

Her purse clinked against something as she tossed it in the backseat. A doll sat in the backseat; a cute doll, with a slightly cracked porcelain face, and a teardrop under one eye. June had given it to her a few months ago, after Anna discovered it in Amelia's old nursery.

_Anna…_

For someone who was as attached to the doll as Anna was, you'd think she'd remember not to leave it in the car.

Patty moved it to the front seat. Nothing of Amelia's should be broken.

There was a slight fog crowding the growing darkness. Patty's headlights cut through it. The only thing she needed to fear on these roads was the occasional appearance of deer. Being in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada meant Cariño had its fair share of roaming creatures.

It would take her only a few moments to get home; perhaps another few to round up the kids for a quiet, home-cooked dinner. She wasn't the best at home-cooked yet, but she was getting there.

The wind rattled the antenna of her car. Something along the side of the road scratched against the tires.

She smiled; in the city, she'd been scared of muggers, and carjackers, and kidnappers. Here, it was ghosts.

_Ghosts…who'd have thought I'd believe in something so silly?_

The wind howled behind the car. She swallowed, turning on the AM, listening to the sound of the crackling static as it searched for some form of life beyond Cariño.

"…_and we pick up with Mahler's 9th symphony, performed by the Grand Orchestra of the St. Petersburg…"_

She cranked up the dial as the heavy brass sounded through the car's speakers. A little like her old life, but pleasant nonetheless.

Night was heavy, now. Her lights barely cut through the fog. Shadows danced upon the thick glass of the windshield. She thought of her kids, of her two boys, fighting over their little old computer. Of Anna, sweetly sucking her thumb in her high chair, watching Patty skim through the recipe books for a quick and easy dinner.

_Hmm…I'm sure I have something quickly preparable. Pasta-something, or maybe one of those meat dishes…_

"_Mine_..."

Patty stiffened, silencing her breathe. Mahler coursed through the sound system, filling the car.

_The wind…_

Anna, she'd told June once, laughed like the wind. A soft, breathy sound that rode on the air like a beach breeze.

_Just the wind, Anna…_

"Mine."

Patty's heart jumped. She turned to the back, scanning the backseat. Nothing but Anna's carseat, one of Aaron's jackets, and her purse.

Nothing.

Her breath was scattered, uneven. Here she'd been laughing at making fun, but she was getting a bit nervous. She exhaled slowly, the hot air puffing before her in a little cloud—a nighttime chill setting in, despite the early spring warmth.

_Anna would laugh at how nervous I am. Everything makes her laugh._

_Anna…_

"Mine."

Patty's eyes jumped to the rearview mirror.

Anna's face stared back at her, her short hair in tight pigtails, her gray eyes glimmering in the dim light.

Patty screamed.

The car swerved, careening carelessly across the small paved road. Her hands gripped the wheel tightly as she pulled the vehicle into the center once more, avoiding the large, thick trees that defined the Yosemite Valley.

Her knuckles were white against the wheel.

She slowly lifted her eyes to the mirror.

Anna's face was gone.

She exhaled, her breath a cloud around her head. _My stupid imagination. God, the hours must be getting to me. I need a good few days rest._

She reached for the dial, turning Mahler off. The last thing she needed was something to keep her stirred up.

Her heartbeat was beginning to return to normal.

_I'll probably have to force Aaron to read tonight. I don't know why he hates it so much. In San Francisco…_

She shook her head. No thinking of what had been. Only of what could be.

Of her strong, handsome boys, and her sweet, beautiful baby girl. Of what the future held.

"Mine. Mine, Mommy. Mine."

Patty turned. The little girl was sitting in the front seat, the porcelain doll clasped tightly in her hand.

_Anna…_

The girl's eyes glimmered. Silver.

_No…not Anna…not…_

"Mine. MINE. No take."

A gray hand reached for her. Pieces of a tattered dress flapped beneath it.

"No take, Mommy. No take…"

"_No…PLEASE…"_

_

* * *

_

On the outskirts of the town of Cariño, a soft, warm spring breeze blew through the air. The swings in Centre Park rattled only slightly, the merry-go-round turning on squeaky hinges. People shut their screen doors a little more tightly, to keep the early season bugs out.

Anna Amly turned her intelligent face to the front of June Arnette's walkway, staring down the road.

June knelt beside her. "She'll be here soon, sweetheart."

Anna stared at her with cold eyes. Her hair was tied into two tight pigtails, the blond ends curling softly near her ears.

"Mommy."

A deafening explosion ripped through the sky, the north side of town burst into a radiant display of orange and gold. June stared for a moment, her eyes wide, then rose, screaming down the hallway for one of the older boys to call the police.

Anna bent her head. The lights in the distance died down, flickering periodically over the thick line of trees. She stared at them, her eyes unblinking.

"Mommy."


	2. Chapter 2: Carino

**CHERISH**

"I told you…no deal."

"But…"

"Sam. Sammy. Come _on_."

"But Dean…"

"No DEAL."

"It won't take that long…"

"I said NO and I mean NO!"

Sam flinched as Dean slammed his door shut, the Impala shaking behind him. He was still angry they'd failed to find any trace of their father in Sacramento.

But even a good mood, Dean Winchester was never easy in letting someone have his car.

"It's just a damn car, Dean," he murmured as he opened the passenger side, but not loud enough for his older brother to hear.

He wasn't surprised Dean had refused to lend him the Impala. It was a '67, but it still ran like gold. His brother had taken a prodigious amount of care of it. Dean loved that car as much as any member of the family. The only time Sam had ever been allowed to drive it was when Dean was unconscious. And even then he felt guilty sitting behind the wheel.

But this time, he needed it. Today was the 24th. In two days, it would be the 26th. And he needed it before they got too far from Sacramento.

"I told you," Dean continued as he cranked the car gently. "Any running around you do, you can do with me. Or," he turned towards Sam, "you can take the bus."

"And you'll wait? For an entire bus trip?"

"A bus trip to where?"

Sam slouched in the seat. "Never mind"

"Look. Either I'm here and I'm waiting for you in a bus, or I let you have the car…"

Sam sat up.

"I _hypothetically _let you have the car, and I'm _still_ waiting. Either way, I'm waiting—but in the worse case scenario, _you_ have _my_ car."

"This isn't that…it's not that big a deal, Dean. It'll just go a lot quicker if it can be a straight shot, and I don't have to bother waiting on buses. Or commandeering a ride."

"Commandeer a ride?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "What the hell is so important you would consider commandeering a car, but you can't tell me about it?"

Sam slouched in the passenger seat. "I told you, I'd rather not talk about it."

Dean stared at him with a sour expression, his green eyes narrowed. After a moment, he turned to the road, and shifted into DRIVE. "Fine. We won't talk about it."

"And the car?"

"You can take the bus. Or 'commandeer' one. I'd love to watch you do that."

* * *

Dean Winchester watched the scenery fly by, his thumb tapping lightly on the wheel of the Impala, Led Zeppelin on the stereo. His pleasant expression faded slightly as he gazed over a Sam, his tall, lanky form slumped carelessly in the passenger seat, brown hair rumpled from sleep.

_What the hell is so important, Sammy? Where do you have to go? It's not like you can make it to Stanford and back in a day…_

His mind scanned through the possible reasons Sammy would have to go sightseeing around Sacramento.

_Not Jessica, she died in Stanford…_

_Nowhere near anyone else he knows…_

_Maybe Dad phoned him?_

Dean felt his heart beat a little faster at this last thought. Though he was almost positive his father would not just call on Sam alone, he couldn't be a hundred percent certain. John Winchester had a funny sense about him with regards to his boys. Though Dean had been his assistant and right hand for the past twenty years, Sam had been the one John always thought about first. And now that Sam had joined the hunt…was it possible John would turn to him first?

_God, listen to me. I sound like a paranoid girl._

Whatever his father did, he knew it was for the best. Dean had to have absolute faith in that. If he didn't…if he didn't…

"Jess…"

Sam murmured in his sleep, his eyes tightening just a little. Dean sighed. He felt bad for his brother…much worse than he'd ever let on to Sam. There weren't many women in the world that could put up with a Winchester—Dean knew that first hand—but Jessica, for the few moments Dean had known her, had seemed like one. There had been parts of her that had immediately reminded him of their mother. He was sorry she'd been killed—sorry she'd been _murdered, _that is, in the way she'd been murdered.

The effect of it on Sam had been immediate. Only days after Jessica had been taken, he'd willingly become a hunter. He'd been fighting against it all his life, but over the course of those few days, he'd finally given in. And Sam was one hell of a fighter. More reserved, perhaps, than their dad, but just as determined.

He supposed it was satisfying for the 'cause', as John Winchester would say, but what effect was it really having on his younger brother? Already, the Sammy he'd tried to protect since Mom's death was fading away, dissolving into the face of a young man hell-bent on revenge. In a way, Dean hated to see it.

He didn't want Sam becoming their father.

"Jesus." He frowned. Not only did he have to watch over Sam, now he was turning into a goddamn shrink.

Something flashed on the highway, catching his attention. Concern faded into determination.

They were almost there.

"Sammy." He slapped his brother's shoulder. "Sammy."

Sam opened his eyes slowly. "What?"

"We're here."

Sam sat up, rubbing his dark hair into place, and glanced out the window. Large trees were rolling by. He turned back to Dean with a puzzled expression. "And where, exactly, is here?"

Dean nodded. A small highway sign rolled by:

CARIÑO, CALIF. POP. 6,667.

Someone had used black spray paint to cross out the population number, and scribble, in grotesque fashion: 6,666.

* * *

Sam crawled out of the passenger side, stretched, and glanced around the picturesque scenery of Cariño's central town square. The town looked as though it was fairly old, perhaps constructed in the time of the gold rush, and still maintained some of its antique heritage.

The families at play were happy, unaware that two strangers were walking into their midst. Usually, when an aura of something 'otherworldly' hung around, it affected the townspeople. But here, children played and laughed as though nothing had happened. The town was as cheery and perfect as any other average, non-haunted town.

"Uh, Dean? Why exactly are we here, again?"

Dean didn't answer, just pulled out a piece of newspaper from his pocket and slid it across the roof of the Impala to Sam. It was a story that had been tucked away in the last part of the Sacramento paper, page A32, with only a small headline: _Mysterious Accident in Cariño; one person dead._

Sam scanned the article quickly. "_Patricia Amly, resident of Cariño, died yesterday in a one-car collision on the highway…no known cause, though early indications do not point to intoxication…_What's this about, Dean? This doesn't seem supernatural…"

"Ah, but that, my friend," Dean said, taking the article back, "is when it most often is."

"What?"

Dean frowned. "The town's in Dad's journal, okay?"

"Yeah, but just because someone was in a car accident here doesn't mean the two are linked."

"When there's a psycho baby doll involved, it does." Dean slid the article across to Sam again, pointing to the picture of the accident scene. On one corner of the picture, in the grass, was a small, porcelain faced doll. Sam studied the image for a moment. A Victorian era doll, perhaps, dressed in an old-fashioned gown, with a single tear drop painted on one side of her face.

Dean reached back into the car and pulled out their dad's leather-bound notebook. He flipped through a few of the pages.

"Here."

Sam grabbed the diary. A few article clippings had been cut out, and pasted sloppily in the worn leaves of the book. One of them bore a picture of a doll, with a porcelain face and a teardrop, very similar to the one involved in the Amly accident. Written in his father's handwriting next to the picture were the letters 'ARA', and a date—September 24, 1902.

"What does 'ARA' mean?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. Doll name, maybe? Owner? It's not that important. What's important is the doll. I mean…look at that thing. That face would scare anybody."

"A demon doll?" Sam's mouth crooked into a grin. "Seriously, Dean. I had no idea. I mean, I suspected, but never really thought…"

"Never really thought what?"

"You mean—seriously—you've never noticed before?"

Dean's green eyes narrowed. "Noticed _what_ before?"

"That you have…well…a doll thing."

"I have a _what?_"

"A thing about dolls. Fear of Chucky. Pediophobia…"

"EXCUSE ME?"

"Not Pedophilia, _Pediophobia…_a fear of dolls."

Dean looked at him for a minute, his mouth crooking into a half-grin. "Shut up."

"No, no no no. Don't you remember Lucy and Ellen? What happened to their dolls?"

"That was because they made us _play_ with them. Any red-blooded American male would be proud of what I did."

"You stuffed the poor things into a _blender." _

"It was about the dignity of a man, Sam. You were six. I was eleven. Dad had already given me my first gun. Dignity. End of story."

"Alright, then. What about the doll that Dad picked up in Lembeaux?"

"That was a voodoo doll."

"Okay…"

Dean had started to move away from the car.

"Then what about that doll that nice old woman gave us in Topeka?"

"What are you talking about?"

"When dad went off that one time, chasing that succubus…"  
"Oh yeah," Dean grinned. "Her."

"And we stayed with that lady who loved Elvis? She gave us a porcelain clown doll as a going away present."

Dean colored slightly. "So."

"Which you conveniently lost the next town over."

"I didn't conveniently lose it. I threw it the hell away."

"Exactly."

Dean's blush deepened. "That wasn't a doll thing. It was a clown thing, and I don't know why you're so interested anyway."

"Clown, doll…what's the difference?"

"Are you kidding me? Clowns are freakin' _terrifying. _With those weird, beady eyes, and those fake painted smiles and those big red noses, staring at you, or laughing at you—with those little bells jingling whenever they move around? Scary, man. Didn't you ever see _It? _Clowns _are_ demonic."

Sam was having a hard time stifling his laughter. Dean glared at him.

"You know what? You can just…never mind. Look, if this thing is something supernatural, we need to find it and destroy it, before it hurts any more people. Now if you would kindly pull your head out of your ass and start asking around, we need to find out more about Patricia Amly. And her _Chinga_-freakin' baby doll."

* * *

Sam had known small towns to pose problems with knowing _everyone_, which usually meant they were suspicious of strangers.

In Cariño, he found the exact opposite problem.

Everyone knew everyone, all right—everyone except Patricia Amly. And the town, with its gold-mining history, was often visited by strangers. No one was disturbed by a few 'big-city boys' roaming around and asking questions. They weren't even too shaken up by the accident.

Sam found it all slightly odd.

"Yeah, I've seen her around, but she'd ain't been here long," was all the diner clerk had to say about her. He found similar responses from other locals, who all recognized the pretty brunette and her three kids, but hadn't really come in contact with her.

"She was fairly new to the area," said her boss, Max Corbin, of the Super Max Mart. "Kept to herself the first few months, after Anna was born. Moved here from San Fran. Something about her husband dying in an auto accident, and she wanted to get away. It's just awful. And those kids…"

Obituaries from a year and a half earlier confirmed his story—a Mark Amly had died in an automobile accident in San Francisco. He was survived by a wife, Patty, two sons, Aaron and Simon, and a daughter, Anna.

"Running from city life," Sam said to Dean a little while later, in their lodge motel room. "Happens a lot to people who lose loved ones like that."

"Well, great. I feel sorry for her. But it doesn't explain what happened, Sam. Or why she had that doll in her car."

"What about the daughter? She could have forgotten it."

"Maybe. Could it have happened twice? I mean, could the Dad have had the doll in the car?"

"I don't think so. The doll's connected to Cariño, and they're from San Francisco. Besides that…" Sam pulled out a slip of paper. "The doll didn't belong to them."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It was her neighbor's…a woman named June Arnette. She gave the doll to Amly's daughter, Anna, as a gift."

"How did you find that out?"

"Max at the Super Max. Said the thing creeped him out. Apparently he has a doll thing, too."

Dean narrowed his eyes, but pressed on. "Any info on what caused the accident?"

"I thought that was your area."

"The husband's accident."

"Oh. Routine, if you can call it that…on his way home from work, got mixed up in a pile-up on the freeway. Another car flipped over and landed on the driver's side. He was killed instantly. Nothing supernatural. What about her accident?"

"Cops say that it was strange. There was nothing on the road that would have made the car veer into the woods, and there was nothing wrong with the car itself. They think it might have been an animal—maybe scared her and she lost control…they can't say for sure. Whatever it was, it was only her car involved."

"And what about her kids? Are they…"

"Staying with a neighbor. Actually, come to think of it," Dean pulled out a note he'd scribbled earlier, "…it is. The Arnette woman. Apparently, she's the only person in town the Amlys are close with. Their grandparents are supposed to come up this weekend to get them. They live in Rhode Island and couldn't get a flight in."

"The accident materials were also returned to the Arnettes. Including the doll."

"Well then." Dean pulled himself up from the table. "I guess it's time we paid that nice family a visit."

"So soon after the accident? Won't that look suspicious?"

"Not if we play it right."

* * *

A few hours later, Sam was walking up the pretty, tree-lined front sidewalk of the Arnette family home.

"This is low, Dean. I mean, we've done low, but this is low."

"We've gone lower," replied Dean, his focus on the door. "At least this one doesn't involve vows of chastity."

The front door opened before they reached the porch; a pretty, white-faced woman stepped out onto the wooden planking.

"Are you from the counseling service?"

Dean flashed his brightest smile, though his eyes wore a look of sympathy. He flashed a badge before her, not giving her any time to read it. "Yes, Ma'am. Are you Mrs. Arnette?"

"Yes. She smiled wanly at his handsome face. Somehow, Dean always instilled a sense of comfort in people, particularly women, when he smiled at them. It was a gift he abused quite readily.

"I'm glad Children's Services has branched out so far. I'd never heard of a Grief Counseling service before."

"New program, Ma'am. We're trying to reach out the community, particularly in the smaller towns."

"Of course. The children are inside, if you want to have a word with them."

Dean stiffened a little. Children were something of a puzzle to him, though Sam believed he was better at handling them than he thought.

The house had an old, almost ancient smell to it; many of the decorative pieces were from the turn of the century or older. A Tiffany lamp lit the long hallway, and through the parlor door Sam could make out a Victorian-style camelback couch.

Jess had loved Victorian furniture. She'd already begun decorating the apartment with it…

He swallowed.

"Sam."

Dean was waiting for him at the end of the hall, watching him with a slightly concerned expression. He'd never admit to that, of course, but Sam knew him well enough to know when he was worried.

He shook it off, and moved into the sitting room at the back of the house.

Three kids were seating in the old-fashioned sofas; one, the elder boy with his mother's brown hair, was focused intently on a handheld game. The second was looking listlessly towards the door, his dark eyes staring unfocusedly into the distance, his little body slouched forward.

Only the little girl was rapt at attention, her gray eyes watching them intently. Her hair curled smartly by her shoulders in two bright pigtails, and in her hands, she clutched the doll that had been in the pictures.

"Kids, these nice young men are named Mr. Dean and Mr. Sam. They're going to talk to you about Mommy."

None of the children moved to respond. Only Anna, still staring at them, took notice that someone had spoken, and tilted her head to the side.

Mrs. Arnette sighed, and stepped forward. "Aaron, please put that away. Simon, there's someone here to see you, sweetie. Simon." She nudged the little boy, who sat up, swallowing, and finally noticed them. Aaron frowned, and deliberately jammed his finger on the pause button, as though acknowledging this wouldn't take long.

"This is Aaron, he's ten. Simon is six, and Anna is just over a year old." She turned back to the children. "I'm going to go in the other room, if you need me. These two nice boys will listen to anything you have to say about Mommy. Whatever you want, they can answer, so talk to them about whatever you'd like, alright?"

Aaron rolled his eyes. Simon looked like he was about to cry. Anna paid no attention to her, just continued to stare at them with her bright gray eyes.

Mrs. Arnette nodded, gave them a reassuring smile, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Dean was frozen in the far corner of the room, staring at the three little ones before him as though they had the plague. Sam sighed and brushed past him, moving to kneel in front of the children.

"Hi. My name is Sam. What's your name?"

Aaron scoffed. "Please. You really think we're going to sit here and talk to people we don't know about our Mom who just got into an accident like our Dad did last year? And now she's dead too?"

Simon let out a soft wail.

Sam opened his mouth. Anna watched him curiously.

Aaron stared at him defiantly, then rolled his eyes, and picked up his computer game.

"Of course not," Dean said suddenly. "You think we're all about that mushy lovey-dovey stuff? That 'everything'll be alright' crap?"

Simon stopped whimpering. Aaron's arm was frozen in mid-air, on its way to turning the handheld back on.

"We don't really work like that, kid."

"Dean." Sam gave him a warning look.

Dean stared back at him determinedly. In an odd way, he looked almost exactly like Aaron. Sam sighed, and stood up.

"We're in this business because we know what it feels like. We've lost people we've loved. You obviously know what it feels like, with your Dad. But your mom…well, sometimes, it's good to talk about it. You know, with people who can kinda understand."

The three kids watched him silently for a moment. Finally, Aaron put down the video game.

"You're not gonna expect us to cry, or anything, are you?"

"Please. Don't."

* * *

"That was absolutely wonderful. I know you've been a great help to the children. Thank you so much." June Arnette looked relieved, if anything.

They'd spent nearly two and a half hours in the 'session,' talking with the kids about their family. It had been good from a history standpoint—they'd learned the entire story of the death of the father, as well as what the family had been up to since that time. They'd also hammered out that Aaron was the father fill-in for the family, that Simon was the baby, and that Anna…

Well, Anna was different.

Dean hadn't been looking forward to the 'counseling session'—he never claimed he was good with kids—but he'd actually found he liked it. He knew from the moment Aaron had snapped at Sam that he'd be able to understand him—that Aaron was very similar to another boy who'd lost his mother at a young age, and had been forced to take care of his family. Aaron was a very 'no-nonsense', serious child, who watched over his younger brother and sister with an adult eye, despite his age. It was a personality only Dean—and maybe a few others—could understand.

Sammy had spent most of his time with Simon, coaxing the little boy out of his dazed state and getting him to talk about things he did after school. He was obviously the most affected of the bunch, from the way he acted.

Neither of them had spent time with Anna. She was so young, she didn't seem to want to interact much. But there was something about the way she watched them…it was exactly the same type of feeling he always got when he was about to be attacked.

The only time she'd said anything was when Dean had moved over, and asked to see her doll for a moment. She stuck out her little lip in a tiny pout, and said, "Mine."

He'd smiled his biggest grin, but she hadn't relented. She just clutched the doll more tightly to her chest.

"All right," he said. "You keep it."

And she'd smiled at him. It had been cute.

June was walking out to the car, still murmuring about how good the 'session' had been for the children. "Anna's so young, I'm sure she's not going to be as scarred as those boys—but to lose such a young and happy mother at so small an age. Just tragic."

"Anna seems to get some comfort from that doll of her," Dean said stiffly. "It was beautiful, though a bit unusual for a small child. Where did she get it?"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Well," her thin hands fluttered to her throat. "That actually belonged to my daughter, Amelia, when she was a little girl. I gave it to Patty to give to Anna as a gift."

"Amelia…Arnette?" asked Dean.

June stiffened. "Yes…that's my daughter's name. Amelia Rebecca."

Dean glanced over at Sam. _A.R.A._

"Do you know where it came from?" Sam asked quickly. "Has it been in your family?"

"You seem awfully interested in it. It's just a doll."

"My girlfriend collects Victorian era items," Sam said quickly. "If you bought it somewhere, I'd like to tell her where in case she wants to look."

He caught Dean watching him with an unreadable expression.

June looked slightly pacified. "Oh. Well, I didn't buy it anywhere. In fact, it actually came with the house."

"The house?"

"Yes…this neighborhood was constructed in the early part of the 20th century. Some of the furnishings remained in the families for decades. When we bought our house, almost all of the furniture came with it. They were a very wealthy family, and that doll was wrapped up in a storeroom off of what used to be the nursery. I sold about half of the toys in there—no need for so many; there was almost two of everything!"

Dean nodded.

"If you're interested in stuff like that, I do know McAllisteer's, the antique store in the town square, has a few that are like it, from other families who've sold theirs as well."

"It's such a pretty doll…Amelia just gave it up?"

June stopped, her face growing pale. "No."

Dean glanced at Sam. _Trouble._

She swallowed. "Um…did you see the sign outside of Cariño, when you came in?"

The boys stared at her, puzzled. "The population sign?" Dean asked.

"Yes…that abominable graffiti?"

"What about it?"

"Some unfeeling young people did that a few years ago. Right before Patty came. They thought it would be funny, but…"

"Was it because of Amelia?" Sam asked softly.

June bowed her head for a moment. Dean glanced over at Sam.

When she raised them, her eyes were red. "I'm sorry. I think I've had enough for today. I'll call you if the children need you again. Thanks for coming."


	3. Chapter 3: ARA

"I told you, Sammy. There's something weird about that doll." Dean slid into the Impala, starting it up with a roar. "And now an ARA. She's the match. We need to find out how that little girl died."

"I admit it's strange that two people with the doll have died…but it's not conclusive proof that the doll is possessed."

"Two people have died, one with the initials in Dad's journal, plus, the _doll's _in Dad's journal. It's definitely possessed."

"I don't know…I mean, if that's the case, why haven't we heard more about the doll injuring other people? Why doesn't Cariño have a history of little girls being killed, or something? Wouldn't that have been in Dad's journal?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe Dad just caught wind of it but didn't have time to explore."

"When has Dad never had time to explore?"

"When he's on the trail of that _thing_. Or maybe nothing had happened in a while. June's daughter died a year or two ago, maybe more. Besides that, there's nothing that links those two families other than that doll. They don't share the same house, they don't have the same family. They haven't even shared the same _town_. The Amlys were new. Or newer, at least."

"There has to be more to it, though. I mean, if it were just a possessed 'toy', then there should be more history around it. But we've been given no indication, not even by the mother, that the doll is suspicious in any way. If it had been responsible for the death of her daughter, why would she then pass it on to the daughter of her best friend? It doesn't make any sense."

Dean shrugged. "Does it ever?"

"We need to look deeper. Let's find out if the town has a Hall of Records."

* * *

Sam rubbed his face with his hands, giving his eyes a rest. The nice thing about a small town, with a small population, was the amount of information that a library or records hall had about it.

He'd found death notices, obits, and even a couple of news articles about mysterious happenings in Cariño.

But nothing conclusive about what he'd wanted to find out most—nothing about little girls being murdered, and nothing about 'possessed dolls.'

The Amly house had a clean history, with nothing particularly suspicious in it's past. It had been constructed in the 1940's sometime, as the boomers were beginning to start up.

The Arnette house was older, as June had said, with origins sometime near the turn of the century. But nothing in the records, or the papers, mentioned anything about anyone dying in that area.

He had found the obituary and information on the death of Amelia Arnette. She'd drowned in the pond behind her parents' house, after wandering out the back door one day. Nothing suspicious involved, just a random, terrible accident. The only thing that seemed to corroborate Dean's suspicions at all was the fact that they were alerted to her disappearance when they found her doll by the pond shore. A sweep of the pond had led to the discovery of her little body wrapped in the grass at the bottom of the lake.

She was only four years old.

Sam sighed. _So young, without any chance to live… _Her parents must have felt terrible, knowing there was something they might have done to prevent it…

Jess flashed across his mind, smiling at him.

_I need that damn car. Just for one day._

Dean would never let him have it. And now that he was hell bent on finding something supernatural about that doll, he wasn't even going to consider it.

He sat back, gathering some of the older papers carefully and bundling them up.

The lady at the front of the hall smiled at him as he strode past, returning the items. "Thank you, Agent King. I hope everything goes well with your investigation."

He flashed her a brilliant smile. "Thanks. You've been very helpful." No matter how many times he had to deceive nice, trusting people, he never felt comfortable doing it, particularly when the whole thing seemed useless.

The park was empty of kids; probably in school this morning. It was a beautiful town park, with a warm and comfortable feel. Something he'd never really had, since he'd never really had a home.

He wondered if Jess had ever had anything like this. She'd been so wonderfully warm—so loving and caring about others—he was almost certain she had. He slumped onto a park bench, burying his face in his hands.

"Sam. Sammy?"

When he finally looked up, Dean had the Impala parked and running in the street in front of the park. His brother was halfway out of the car, eyes wide. Sam stood, rubbing his face, and lumbered over to him.

"You've been sitting there forever, man. Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

Dean sat back down in the driver's seat, staring at Sam warily. "You sure?"

"Sure. I'm fine." He cleared his throat. "Did you find out anything?"

"I've got something to show you," Dean said, still watching Sam with a tenuous expression. "What about you?"

"Nothing. No murders, no little girls getting killed, no psycho dolls or haunting stories. The only thing is on Amelia Arnette—drowned in the pond behind her parents' house. It was an accident, Dean."

Dean steered the car down a gravel path not too far from the square, his thumb tapping the wheel. "Oh."

"What've you got?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much, just another connection to the journal. And Amelia Arnette."

He turned the Impala into a small, grass filled parking lot. There was an old-style church in the far corner, and next to it, a relatively large graveyard.

"A lot of the residents of the town are buried here. I found something this morning."

He led Sam down a tree-lined path, carved into the dirt by years of treading. There was a small, worn-down grave marker in the far corner near the fence, the tombstone weathered and gray. The stone bore a relatively obscure epitaph:

_ARA—beloved daughter, beloved child. Two years on this blessed Earth, many more in blessed Heaven._

"Guess it isn't much, but I thought I'd show you anyway."

Sam stared at the headstone, puzzled. "Dean, this isn't Amelia Arnette's grave."

"Why not? You said she died a few years ago, and here she is."

"Because Amelia Arnette wasn't buried. She was cremated. And she was four, not two."

"What?"

"She died when she was four years old. And the obituary said she was cremated. The remains were to be kept with her parents."

"Okay…" Dean scanned the headstone again. "Well, it could be older, now that I think about it. Even stuck back here in the corner, it wouldn't get this beat up over only two or so years. And whoever this ARA is happens to have the same initials as Amelia Arnette."

"And Anna Amly."

"What?"

"Her birth records list her middle name as Rachel. Annabeth Rachel Amly." He scanned down the row of headstones. Everything else looked normal.

"So…we have our connection," Dean said. "We need to go back to the Arnette house."

"Yeah, but…"

"But what? It all fits—doll, name, kid. This thing is after Anna Amly."

"But…if that was the case, why did it attack _Patricia_? Wouldn't it have gone after Anna?"

"Yeah, I suppose it should have."

"Mistaken identity?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Humans make mistakes. Ghosts don't."

Sam sighed. "Right. I don't know. Something's off, Dean. The whole thing is confusing. It feels supernatural, but at the same time, it doesn't. Amelia died, but there is no indication the doll killed her—she dropped it on the pond shore before she fell in. And then it's Patty, _not _Anna, who died in that car crash. And this ARA—this gravestone is years older. And the person buried under it was only two years old—that's not a lot of time to build up a vengeful spirit."

"Hey, I had to baby-sit you when you were two. I can tell you right now that even two-year olds can have vengeful spirits."

"But nothing really seems to add up. What do they have in common, other than the initials? I've never heard of an anagram being a reason to kill, Dean."

"Well, maybe the doll's the focus, and the initials—or the name—is the link."

"But if that's the case, and it is after Anna Amly, why hasn't it attacked her yet? I'm sure there are plenty of times when she and the doll were alone…"

"Maybe it's been waiting. Maybe it wants to make sure that this is the 'ARA' it's been looking for. Did you didn't find anything about anyone dying with the initials ARA? Other than Amelia Arnette?"

"Honestly, I didn't look. I was searching for murders, little girls' deaths—not for the initials."

"Then I think we need to get back to the library, Sammy-boy."

* * *

A subsequent search of the Town Records—gladly provided for by Gladys, the nice front desk clerk, who let them stay there well into the night—still turned up nothing with regards to A.R.A.

Gladys herself, who'd lived in the town nearly 20 years, knew nothing about the headstone or any other deaths related to ARA. "You know, many historians have come digging around town, and a few have come across that headstone, but it never interested anyone enough to keep searching. Some poor child who died at the age of two, probably of a disease or something. There's no record of it here, so we think it may have been a passer-by."

"No way," Dean commented later as they were leaving. "No entity haunts a town they were passing through. This 'thing', whatever it is, is connected here. It just doesn't have a history. That doesn't mean it didn't exist."

"Yeah, but without a history, it makes it a whole lot harder to track."

"But it's connected to the Amly family. It shares their name. It shares that doll, somehow. It's not _that _disconnected."

"It has nothing about it here, Dean. Neither the Amlys nor the Arnettes have been here long enough to know what's been going on in their houses. And I sincerely doubt that Mrs. Arnette is going to be thrilled with the idea of detailing to _us_ exactly how her daughter died, particularly since they must feel partly responsible. We're at a dead end."

"When did you become so negative, all of a sudden?" Dean asked quietly. "Normally you're all 'gung-ho' Internet explorer and surrounding town records and big city newspaper articles and junk. A woman _died_ here, Sammy. Why don't you care?"

"I do care. I just…don't think we have good leads here, Dean. I don't think we'll be able to do anything until something else happens."

"The next 'something else' that happens could be the death of that little girl. You really want to wait until then?"

"Of course not. But if there's nothing else to go on, we'll be sitting here, twiddling our thumbs, and wasting our time. Sooner or later, someone's going to figure out we're not Department of Histories agents or DFCS counselors. And then what'll we do?"

"We'll just have to keep on pushing, like we always do."

"Sometimes we push too hard," Sam sighed. "Sometimes we should probably just let it go."

"What?" Dean narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with you? You still want to go joyriding, is that it? What is so damn important in Sacramento—or is it San Francisco—it's taking your focus off this case to the point you barely care?"

"We've never been stuck dead in the water before, Dean. That's what this case is turning into."

"Is it Dad?" Dean asked suddenly, turning to face him, "did he tell you to do something without me?"

"What?"

"Is it?"

"Why would you think that?"

"The last time we talked he was particularly interested in talking to you. You two got a secret you're keeping?"

"Of course not, Dean. We spoke about the headaches. You were there, you know that! Besides, Dad wouldn't call on me without you—you know that, too."

"Do I? Nowadays it seems like you and he are getting awfully chummy."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You're pushing it, Dean. Dad wouldn't ask me to do anything without you—and I wouldn't go without you. If you think I would, then you don't know me as well as I thought you did."

Dean's face softened. "Then what is it, Sam? Why don't you want to get this thing as much as I do? Why aren't you here, with me, trying to figure it out?"

"I'm sorry. But not everything is going to be about something supernatural. And sometimes it's just not going to work out the way we—or Dad—might want it to."

"But it's not about us. This time it's about Anna—and Patricia Amly. And Amelia. And June. It's about finding out what the hell is hurting them and finding a way to stop it. No one else can do that, Sam. Just us. We're the only ones. We don't forget that."

"All about the mission," he said briskly. "I _got _it, Dean. No problem."

Dean's halfway nodded. "Good. Now get your head back in the game. And get some rest. Tomorrow, we're going flat-footing."

* * *

McAllisteer's Antique Store was one of those old-fashioned, only-open-when-we-feel-like-it type shops that smelled immediately of dusty books and ancient furniture. Dean liked the smell; it reminded him a lot of some of the things that Dad had brought home from his jobs.

The shop owner had a tinge of an accent, perhaps left over from the days of his parents, both Scottish immigrants. He was a pleasant older gentleman, who took his time showing them items, and explaining about 'the good ol' days.' One of those nice guys who enjoyed long lunches and lemonade out in the sun. One of the 'grandfather' type guys who loved to tell long, involved stories.

Dean hated guys like that.

He sat with his hand resting on his chin, a wan smile on his face, trying his best to pay attention as Mr. McAllisteer talked about the fourth generation families that now inhabited Cariño, and the shock of Patty Amly's accident on their small town. He blinked a few times, trying to keep his eyes from glazing over. This, in his opinion, was the hard part of the job. Give him a gun, some rock salt and a group of ticked off demons any day.

Even Sam, who was much better at handling McAllisteer-types, looked bored.

_His mind's still on Sacramento, and whatever he's waiting for._

He believed Sam when he'd said it wasn't there father. John Winchester wasn't easy to read, and Dean didn't put it past him to involve Sam in something that didn't involve Dean. Their father was just like that. Whatever means to the end—that was his philosophy.

But it wasn't Sam's, and if Sammy said he wasn't meeting their father, he wasn't meeting their father.

It had to be Jessica, then. He'd never meet anyone else without Dean knowing.

At least, Dean didn't think he would.

But what about Jessica? What connection did she have to Sacramento? Parents, maybe? Or maybe it was San Francisco? Was she from there?

"Dean."

He glanced up. Sam and McAllisteer were staring at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"Mr. McAllisteer asked us if we wanted to see the dolls."

"Uh…you can. I'm good, thanks." He smiled as jovially as he could. For the first time that day, Sam grinned. A wicked grin.

Dean glared at him. "Alright, what've you got?"

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Sam murmured under his breath.

"Shaddup."

McAllisteer led them into a small room, decorated to resemble a Victorian era little girl's room. There were porcelain tea sets, old mohair rocking horses, and frilly pink-and-white lace pillows.

On a shelf near one of the small windows were a row of dolls, similar to the one owned by Amelia Arnette, and now, Anna Amly.

"What do you know about these types of dolls?" Sam asked.

"Standard Victorian era—modeled after the ones created in England. They're dressed in customary style, with the ruffles and lace. Porcelain was unrefined, and they went after more of a 'stylish' look than for realism, so you get the bigger eyes and such."

Dean scanned the shelf. They were close, but nothing exactly matching the Amly doll. "Any of these dolls come from Cariño?"

"A few…maybe…this one…" he pulled a doll with a dark curl painted on the forehead. "And this one." Another, this one with blue eyes.

"Anything strange ever happen to the owners of these dolls, as far as you know?"

"To the _owners_?"

"Histories of dolls include the histories of the owners," Sam said quickly.

Mr. McAllisteer looked puzzled, but shrugged. "Not that I'm aware of. We did have mention of a few children drowning, but that's natural in a small town. Nothing directly connected to any of these dolls—like, nothing for _Ghost Hunters_ or anything like that."

Sam flipped the doll backwards, searching for anything that might be related to Anna's doll. There was nothing.

"Do you know about a doll owned by June Arnette? It would have belonged to the owners of the house prior to the Arnettes."

"Hmmm…she sold a lot of things after…well, you know about her little girl, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Tragic, really. 'Melia was a sweet little thing. Anyhow, June had me come look at a whole bunch of items. I took almost everything from her nursery—that stuff sells real well—but she kept a few things. Rocking horse, furniture and a tea set—and the Olivia doll."

"Olivia doll?"

"Yeah, that pretty thing with the tear drop on her face. That's an Olivia—pretty rare, made by only one doll maker from San Francisco 'round the turn of the century. They were expensive even then, and he didn't sell to just no one. My guess is the old lady got it when she was a girl, and left it with the house."

"The old lady?"

"Anderson. Rebecca Anderson. I knew her most of my life, but didn't really know her. Her family was wealthy and traveled in and out of San Francisco most of the time. This was a summer house. She fixed it up, I think, and came out here to stay on holidays, but she kept to herself."

"And when she died she just left it to someone else? Even being that rare?"

"Who knows? It was in a storage closet. Hey, she was rich. Probably didn't mean as much to her as it to do some others. June kept it because Amelia had loved it."

"Do you know anyone who might have known her well? Enough to know her family?"

"Maybe Morgan Sanderson—he's from here and has lived here all his life. But he'll be a waste of your time. Gold digger. He spends all his time talking to those feature shows for those history stations and stuff. His family moved in around the time of the gold rush, and he likes to pretend he's the gosh darn heart of the town. But he may have known Rebecca."

"Where's he at?"

"He's down Duena Street. 135. But it'll be a waste of your time."

"Thanks."

"Mr. McAllisteer—one last thing. There's a grave in the old cemetery off the park…a grave marked 'ARA'. Do you happen to know who that is?"

"McAllisteer thought for a moment. "Noooo…don't care much for graveyards. At least, not if it doesn't involve a price tag. Are you sure you don't want to buy one of these?" he asked, taking the doll back from Sam.

"No. We're good, thanks." Dean ignored the look on Sam's face, and headed out.

* * *

Morgan Sanderson lived in his family's old house, a beautiful two-story Victorian on the edge of a pretty, wooded lake. He greeted them genially, obviously used to strangers coming to visit.

"How can I help you boys?"

"We were wondering if we might be able to talk to you a bit about the history of the town—if it isn't too much trouble."

"Sure. I've lived here my whole life—family too, since before the turn of the century—20th century, that is."

"Great. We were wondering…"

"There's just the small matter of a consulting fee."

"Ah…excuse me?"

"It's traditional for you guys, whenever you come around, to afford out a small consulting fee for my services. You know, for those 'according to Morgan Sanderson, a resident of the town' type deals."

"Uh, we're not involved in one of 'those type' deals."

"We just want some information."

"Hmmm…well. That's too bad. Seems my memory is a little sketchy these days."

"I could tell you that without the consulting fee," Dean hissed.

"Dean. Look, sir," Sam said quietly. "We're just wanting to know if you know who owned the house that June Arnette lives in. What family—or if they had a little girl."

"Well…maybe. I can't seem able to recall clearly."

"I recall my car parked outside, in front of the house," said Dean. "I also recall being told that this would be a waste of our time. Let's get out of here, Sam. Mc-antique old-guy was right…he doesn't know anything. Maybe if we go back to the store, we can find something useful."

"Who told you that?"

"Mr. McAllisteer," said Sam.

"That money grubbing treasure-hunter? The only history he'd know is the history of sale. My family has lived in this town for one-hundred and fifty years!"

Dean shrugged, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. "He may be a treasure seeker, but he's not the one charging us for information."

Sanderson's nostrils flared. Dean shook his head, and turned for the door.

"Alright. But just this once, I ain't in the habit of giving up a nice living for the sake of being principled. The Arnette family lives in the old Anderson house. Nice house, one of the first built around the lake. Rebecca Anderson inherited it from her father—Tom Anderson."

"Thomas Anderson?"

"Yeah. Thomas and Elizabeth was the mother, I think. Nutty as fruitcake, that one."

"Nutty?"

"She had problems most of her life. Then again, she was rich. You ever knew rich people not to be nutty?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Did Rebecca have any siblings?"

"No. Rebecca was an only child. Why are you so interested in the names? I thought you wanted to know about the house."

"We want to know a little of everything."

"Oh. Well, Rebecca inherited the house from her parents when they died. The Mom used to come here at the beginning of the spring for some oddball reason or another. After they died, Rebecca refurbished it a bit. But only came during the summertime. Avoided it like the plague, around March. But, well, she was nutty, too, just like her Momma. She lived most of the time in San Francisco."

"Do you know if anyone ever—died in that house?"  
"Yeah. Both the Mother and Rebecca. Mother in the 40's sometime, and Rebecca in 1984. Died on vacation, though they're buried in San Fran."

"How did they die?"

"I reckon they both died in their sleep, since there wasn't a bit stink about it…Hey…you ain't with one of them ghost-hunting shows, are you?"

"No." Dean and Sam said in unison.

Sanderson stared at them suspiciously for a moment.

"It's a hobby," said Dean quickly, trying to look convincing.

"Well, them's the only two I can remember, before Amelia Arnette. I'm sure you know about her." Morgan replied.

"What about…what about a baby doll—an Olivia doll?" Sam asked. "Have you heard of an Olivia doll belonging to Rebecca, being passed around?"

"Rebecca would have had a lot of things from her childhood here, she spent her holidays in that house. But that's getting into particulars I don't know."

"Nothing about a doll being involved in her death?"

"No—why are you so interested in dolls, son?"

Dean rubbed his face with his hand. "How about the graveyard by the park—do you know who 'ARA' is?"

"No…just that that headstone's been in that cemetery for _years._ Before I was born, and that was over eighty years ago. I don't think anyone's alive who knows who that headstone belongs to."

"Great," Dean murmured.

"I can tell you this, though. It used to have a 'legend' associated with it, if you could call it that. Schoolyard stuff—nothing for the ghost chasers. They used to say a spirit of a toddler haunted that grave."

"Why would they say a toddler?"

"Probably 'cause the age on the tombstone is two."

Sam smirked. "Of course."

"Anyways, sometimes the kids would joke about it, that that kid would haunt you if you had that name. Some families took it seriously. We had one or two people die with a combination of those initials—like Rebecca Anderson—and sometimes it spooked people."

"They stopped using 'A' names, I take it?"

"Yeah—how'd you guess?"

"What about Amelia Arnette?"

Sanderson shrugged. "Coincidence. Her family wasn't from here—they'd moved in only a few years ago. And people in the town don't remember much about the 'curse of ARA' anymore—it's been too long—so I don't suppose anyone thought to tell her. Not that it would make a difference. It was just a schoolyard legend. Not even good enough to make the history books."

"But…even if it's been a century…you have to admit that it's a little strange, the death of a little girl, with the initials ARA."

"Maybe. But why? Who'd haunt a _name?_"

"I think that's something we have to find out," Dean murmured.


	4. Chapter 4: Fire

Aaron Amly turned off the sink, wiping the last plate from dinner clean. Mrs. Arnette had gone to put Anna to bed, and Simon was in his room, reading one of his mystery novels.

He'd told Mrs. Arnette he'd help with the dishes, so she didn't have to worry about them. Sometimes she looked so frail, he was afraid too much work would wear her out.

His Gameboy was sitting on one of her end tables. He picked it up, fingering it in his hands.

He wondered what that guy Dean…what was it—Hoover? was doing.

Dean had been kinda cool, for a counselor. Not afraid to tell them they didn't have to cry, and stuff. Aaron had cried a lot when Dad had died. He didn't think he could cry for Mom, too. Not like that. He'd seen how much it had hurt Mom, to watch him cry. He didn't want Simon and Anna to feel like that too.

Dean had said that was cool. That he could try and take care of his brother and sister and be strong and stuff. That was cool.

And he cursed. That was cool, too.

Mrs. Arnette came down the stairs, carrying Anna's doll in her frail little hands. Mom had always said she looked like she was about to break. She peered into the kitchen, and placed the doll on the couch.

"Thank you, dear. Everything looks great."

"You're welcome. Did Anna go to bed?"

"She cried a little, but I think she's sleeping now."

"What about Simon?"

"He's still reading."

"Um, Mrs. Arnette?"

"Yes, what is it, dear?"

"I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of us. Of Simon and Anna, I mean."

She watched him for a moment with her big eyes, and smiled. "You're welcome, Aaron. My, but you are a little man, aren't you?"

He frowned. _If she pinches my cheek…_ "I'm going to check on Anna."

"Okay. Just be quiet." She rose. "I'm going to lock up now."

"'Kay." He watched her go into the back room, and picked Anna's doll up from the couch. She liked to have the doll in her room; he didn't know why Mrs. Arnette had brought it down.

He reached the top of the landing, popping his head into Simon's room. His younger brother was still engrossed in one of his mystery novels. He shut the door and moved down the hall, towards Anna's room.

Her door was shut tightly. Anna always liked to have her door cracked open.

A giggle fluttered down the hall.

He paused, his hand on Anna's doorknob.

The giggle came again, in the room Mrs. Arnette had decorated for her daughter. _Abigail? No…Amelia. _

Aaron thought the whole thing was creepy, but his Mom had said how much mothers love their children. And how much they missed them when they went away. He knew how much he missed Dad, so he supposed he understood…

_Mom…_

A lump rose in his throat.

The giggle sounded again. It sounded exactly like his sister. But how could she have gotten out?

"Anna?"

Once more, the laughter sounded, this time a bit louder.

He opened the door to Amelia's room. It was dark, with only the moonlight to guide his way in.

The switch on the wall wasn't working.

He peered deeper into the room, cracking the door as widely as he could, to let in as much light as possible.

There was no sign of Anna.

"Anna?"

_How could she have gotten in here? She barely knows how to walk._

But she'd love to run away at nighttime, her little feet padding on the floor, their mother chasing her, wrapping her up and tucking her away into her crib.

"Anna…" he moved into the room.

He thought he heard a rustling in the far corner. "Come on, you know you have to be in bed. Come here, Anna."

The door slammed shut behind him.

He bolted for where the door had been, trying to make out the handle in the dim light.

He rattled the knob, but it was stuck. _Great._ He rattled it again. Nothing.

"MRS. ARNETTE!" He banged his fist against the door. "MRS. ARNETTE!"

"Mine."

He stopped, a shudder of fear running through him. The voice had come from behind him.

"Mine."

He turned slowly, his fingers trembling as he clutched the doll.

"Mine."

A tiny figure was standing behind him, her eyes shimmering in the dark. He pulled the doll to his chest. The figure shifted into one of the beams of moonlight.

He looked down at her, puzzled. She had her hair pulled into two tiny pigtails, the hair curling around her ears.

_Anna?_

"Mine." She moved forward again. For some reason, he stepped back.

"A-Anna. I know it's your doll…let's go back to bed now, and you can have it, okay?"

"MINE." The tiny voice deepened. A hand reached out towards him.

The hand was gray. The night dress was ragged, torn and frayed, unraveled like clothes that had been too long in the washer.

The eyes were silver. Deep. Empty.

He screamed.

"MINEEEEEEE!" she wailed, her voice rattling the eaves. Sparks flew through the room, the lights flickering wildly. The room lit up around him, in yellow flames.

All he saw was the figure, coming at him, her empty eyes staring at him, her mouth wide and wailing, the little fingers curling around his arms, his throat.

Everything went black.

* * *

Rebecca Anderson was buried at Skylawn Memorial Park Cemetery, in San Francisco. According to the database, her certificate of death listed her full name as Annabelle Rebecca Anderson, born on September 24th 1902. There was the date. And the name.

Another A.R.A.

"Jeez! This is so damn confusing!" Dean had yelled when the information came up.

Her house had been deeded to a cousin, Arthur Langstone, who'd known nothing about the history or contents. He'd been one of many trustees who had won something form the Anderson's rather large estate, and had actually been a bit disappointed in the lake house. He'd wanted one of the vintage Rolls.

She was listed as having no siblings, and no children. No other AR anythings in the family. The trail for ARA, the date, and the doll—ended there.

Sam sat by the window of their lodge room, staring out the window. They'd called June Arnette a little earlier, to check up on the kids—keeping with appearances, Dean had said, but Sam knew he wanted to make sure Anna and the others were alright. Mrs. Arnette had said the boys were doing fine, though of course 'in a state', though they were looking forward to seeing their grandparents.

They'd asked about Anna, too. June had mentioned nothing about the doll, just said that Anna was 'fine.' She'd extended an invitation to them to visit again tomorrow, the Friday before their grandparents were set to arrive.

Peace was returning to Cariño. A peace that, to Sam, had never left.

And another day wasted day had gone by. _The twenty-fifth…_

There was something of a chill in the nighttime air around Cariño. Sam shut the window, glancing up at the sky.

Rain was coming, probably tomorrow.

Dean was in a t-shirt and shorts, hunched over the table, studying their father's journal. They'd scoured the bits and pieces of information about Cariño a hundred times, but nothing had come up about any ARA curse. No birth records listed little girls—or boys, for that matter—dying around the turn of the century at the age of two years old.

Another dead end.

Dean had decided, for the rest of the evening, anyway, to focus on the initials, since they were the best to go on. "Do you think the 'ARA' could actually _be_ Rebecca Goldsmith? Maybe her parents killed the real Rebecca, and adopted another girl in her place." His clear green eyes looked tired from the strain of studying the papers.

"I don't think so…that's really a stretch."

"Then…what about possession—maybe this ARA is possessing these kids, to contact someone."

Sam pulled up a chair next to his brother, "Well, we've had no indication that there's been possession or past lives involved. Anna Amly didn't kill her mother. And if it was possession, why would the entity want to kill the person it's possessing?"

"Yeah…I guess. It's a dead end. But then what would Dad have noticed here? I mean, the place, and the doll, are in his journal for a reason."

"I dunno. Maybe he heard about it, thought it might be supernatural, and put it in. Maybe this was some of the stuff he never got the chance to investigate."

Dean cocked a grin. "You're joking, right?"

"No…why would I be?"

"Because…Sam, you don't screw with 'the journal'. Dad never guessed in 'the journal'. The journal's the _journal_. You don't put what you 'think' in 'the journal.'"

"Okay, fine, you don't screw with the journal. Then maybe it's dated. Or maybe someone solved it already. Maybe the death of Amelia Arnette solved it, and the thing with Patricia Amly was an accident."

"I suppose it's possible," Dean said casually, shutting the diary. "Maybe it's done. But if it is, we should still destroy that doll, just to be safe."

"To be safe."

"To be safe, Sam. Just to be safe. Not to be pedophiles."

"Pediophiles. Don't get _that_ confused. And actually, that's a pedio_phile_—singular. I _don't_ have a hang-up with dolls."

"Shut up."

Sam grinned.

Sirens broke through the silence. A fire engine, with two police cars and an ambulance, were racing down the main highway, past the lodge.

Sam glanced over at his brother. "You don't think…"

Dean watched the lights flicker down the road. "That's going towards the Arnette house. We better go, just to make sure."

* * *

"My God."

Dean stared in horror at the Arnette house, as the firefighters streamed water in an attempt to batter down the flames that were roaring through the right side of the house.

Police officers were holding frightened onlookers back from the scene. Dean pushed through them, followed by Sam. "Hey, hey you!"

One of the officers, a younger guy, probably mid-twenties, came over. "Stay back, sir. The house could still go."

"Hey, there were…there were kids in that house. Three kids…where are they?"

The police officer looked around. "I don't…"

"Where the hell are they?"

"In the back," said another officer, coming over to see what the commotion was about. "There were two, and the lady, got pulled out."

"Two? But there were three!"

"They only found two."

Dean swallowed. "Where?"

"Ambulance."

Sam didn't wait for Dean, just shoved through the crowds, towards the ambulance. "Mrs. Arnette? Simon?"

He pushed himself through to the back of the truck, peering in.

Mrs. Arnette was lying on a gurney, tears rolling down her ash-streaked face. She was clutching a small urn. A paramedic was at the far end of the bay, adjusting the oxygen supply.

"Mrs. Arnette? June?"

She saw him from the corner of her eye, and pulled at her mask.

"You can't be here, son…."

"No," June croaked. "A-Aaron."

"Aaron what?" Dean asked. "Aaron _what_!"

"He's still…still in—" she started coughing.

"Sh…" Dean whirled around, shoving his way harshly through the crowd.

"DEAN!" Sam raced after him, grabbing at his brother's shoulders. Dean maneuvered his way in front of the crowd, making it to the police tape. A firefighter at the front turned around, and shoved him back.

"GET BACK!"

"There's still someone inside!" Dean screamed, trying to shove past him.

"DEAN!" Sam grabbed his brother's arm, trying to drag him backwards. Dean could be incredibly strong, when he put his mind to it. "DEAN, STOP!"

"Let me go, Sam!"

"You can't, Dean. You…"

Someone from the crowd let out a scream. The right side of the house suddenly buckled and collapsed, sending an incredible burst of flame towards the street. The crowd tumbled back, Dean and Sam shielding their eyes as the fireball let off a blinding flare, then died back into a tumble of smoke and ash.

Sam felt his brother's body go slack, and he released him. "Dean…"

Another person in the crowd suddenly cheered.

A firefighter was trudging around the left side of the house, carrying a bundle wrapped in blankets. They watched him for a second as he bolted to the ambulance, then took off after him.

"Aaron?"

They reached the ambulance only a few moments after the firefighter. The paramedics unwrapped the bundle, lifting the little body up onto a gurney.

"Aaron…"

The little boy coughed weakly. The paramedics shooed them away, quickly placing an oxygen mask on Aaron.

His right arm was slightly burned, as were parts of his face and neck. But overall, he appeared all right.

"Aaron," Dean murmured.

The little boy opened his eyes, staring wearily at them. He caught sight of Dean, and a small smile crossed his face. He gave them the thumbs up.

Dean let out a laugh, and returned the gesture. Aaron nodded, mouthing something to Dean.

Sam watched in confusion as Dean pointed behind him. "They're both fine. Got out, no problem. You'll get to see them soon."

Aaron smiled again, and let his head roll back on the gurney. The paramedics shut the door, and within a few moments, the ambulance had disappeared into the dark hills.

They wandered around a bit as the crowd began to break up. The flames of the Arnette house were slowly dying down, the fire weakening as sections of the house had finally given way. Sam caught sight of Simon sitting in a police car, surrounded by officers. He looked as dazed as he had been yesterday, when they came to see him.

He caught sight of them, but his eyes wouldn't focus. He was lost.

A woman came up to him, kneeling down to ask him a few questions. Dean stopped next to Sam, watching the two of them as she tried to talk to the little boy.

"Not bad," he murmured. Sam rolled his eyes. _Even in a crisis…_

The woman rose, nodded something at the police officer, and moved over to the front of the car.

Anna was curled in the front seat, sleeping peacefully, her thumb in her mouth. Sam stared at her for a moment. Dean's focus had gone from the woman to the baby, his eyebrow arched.

Curled in Anna's arm was the porcelain doll, completely untouched, the dress, despite having been through a fire, as white as snow.


	5. Chapter 5: Abandon

"_Come on, Sam. What are you waiting for?"_

_Jess smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. She left her blond hair loose; she knew he liked it like that, and she always did little things to please him. _

_Her white dress, whiter than snow, was catching a glimmer from the sun rays. It was perfect for Southern California weather, perfect for summertime._

_She was perfect._

_He laughed, following her into the shop. She paused for a moment to admire the old-fashioned tea set, which she claimed she'd someday have in her parlor._

_"Why would you want a parlor?"_

_"Shut up," she laughed. "My parents had one in their old house, and it was beautiful. The new house didn't have anything like that. I was angry they got rid of it."_

"_That's bad. I've seen you angry."_

"_Well, since you won't let me have a parlor, for now this will have to do." She reached up and pulled down an old Victorian baby doll, with a white dress and bonnet._

"_Come on. Please. No."_

"_Yes. I love it."_

"_But it's a doll."_

"_Ah, so it is! Good for you, Sam Winchester!"_

"_Winchesters don't do so well with dolls."_

"_What, are you afraid of it? It's only a little baby."_

"_The last doll we had, my brother put into a blender."_

"_Yikes! Remind me never to invite him over to the parlor."_

_Sam laughed. "I don't know if he'd come! Anyways, I hope he's gained some manners since then—he was eleven at the time."_

"_Well, that explains a lot. But I suppose we'll have to wait and see—speaking of which, how much longer DO we have to wait?"_

"_Uh, that I can't tell you. As long as we have to wait to meet your parents."_

_She shook her head, and took the doll to the register. "You don't want to meet my parents, Sam. They're boring old people. Nice boring old people, but boring old people."_

"_I don't have anything against old people. Not even against crabby, unpleasant old people. Nice, boring old people would be great."_

_The clerk took the doll to be wrapped. She stood on her tiptoes, and gave him a gentle kiss. "You'll meet them when I'm ready for you to meet them. It has nothing to do with you, Sam. Just with them. I want them to be perfect when they meet you."_

_He wrapped his arms around her. "You're perfect. I'm sure they are too."_

_She laughed. "You're a very optimistic person, Sam Winchester."_

_The clerk handed them the doll, smiling at their embrace. Jessica smiled and thanked him._

_Sam guided her out the door, looking up into the bright sun. Clouds were rolling in. "It looks like rain might be coming."_

_There was no answer._

_He turned. "Jess?"_

_She was standing just outside the doorway, the doll dangling from her hand. There was a vacant expression on her face._

"_Jess?"_

_She glanced up at him._

"_Sam…"_

_She flickered for a moment. Her image, clothed in white, split in two._

"_Jess?" Sam tried to reach out, but he couldn't move._

_The two images held up their dolls. "This is mine."_

"_JESS? JESS!"_

_There was a burst of light. _

"_NOOOO!"_

_She blended into one form, her eyes widening. The flames engulfed her, burning around her. He'd seen it, in his mind, again, and again. His body released and he moved towards her as fast as he could, but they took her, spreading across her white dress, her blond hair, her beautiful face._

"_JESS! NOOOOOO!"_

"SAM!"

Sam shot upwards, sweat beading on his forehead. Dean was bent over him, his pendant dangling off his bare chest, his hands on Sam's shoulders, shaking him.

"Sammy. You okay? You were screaming."

"Yeah," Sam panted. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You didn't sound fine."

"I'm fine."

"Nightmare?"

Sam didn't answer, just rose from the bed and went to grab a drink.

"You don't have to keep it to yourself, you know."

"Keep what?"

"The night Jessica died."

Sam choked on the water. "What?"

"Come on, Sam," Dean said, sitting himself back on the bed. "You were screaming her name in your sleep. We just saw a massive fire. It's obvious."

Sam turned away from him. "It wasn't that. I don't want to talk about it."

"I know you don't. You never want to talk about it. But you have to, Sam, at some point. You can't keep it bottled up forever. Look at what it did to Dad."

"I'm not Dad."

"No, not most of the time. But you do keep things bottled up, and it's not healthy. If you're going to go into this thing, you're going to have to keep your emotions in check."

"You're one to talk."

"What?"

"You almost ran into a burning house to save that boy. You don't think that was driven by emotion?"

"He might have died."

"And so would you."

"I would have done that for anyone. You, him, the little girl, Joe Schmoe down the road."

"It still could have got you killed, Dean."

"Maybe. That's a risk we take. The difference is, for me, it's not personal."

"Yeah, well, you've never watched anyone you loved die right in front of you."

Dean stood up, snatching his T-shirt off the dresser. "You're right, Sam. I've never watched anyone I loved die right in front of me. But maybe you don't know what it's like to watch two people you care about killing themselves slowly right in front of you. Maybe you ought to think of that once in a while."

He stormed from the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

Sam dropped his head into his hands. _Dean's just being Dean. Protective to a fault, and always concerned about the family…_

But Dean did what he did out of blind allegiance to their father. It was not something Sam could do. He had to have a reason to get up every day. Losing Jessica had been hard—so hard, he could barely stand it sometimes. He knew how his father felt, what drove him to his mission. Even if he didn't like it, he understood it.

_This has to be about them, Dean. Not about us. We're not doing this because we want to save the world. We want to make them pay. We want to destroy them, so no one else has to suffer like we have._

_So no one else has to die, like Jessica._

_

* * *

_

Sam woke up exhausted—he hadn't gotten much sleep last night. Neither had Dean, apparently—it was hours after his nightmare when Sam finally fell asleep, and Dean hadn't returned before that. When Sam woke up—sometime in the afternoon—Dean was fully dressed and poring over the journal once more, though it appeared he hadn't gone anywhere in the morning.

"I think we need to speak with the fire chief," he said. "You can handle that. I'm going back to the library to check a few more records. We can meet Mrs. Arnette at the hospital too. Aaron's already been released, but he's staying at his old house with his brother and sister until their grandparents come tomorrow."

_Typical Dean, _Sam thought. _Acts like nothing's wrong the next day. _

Not that he cared. He'd rather not talk about it.

They didn't say much to each other as they got ready to go. Dean dropped Sam off at the fire station, then parked the Impala in the town square.

The fire chief accepted his story about being a reporter, thankfully.

"All that we can find, initially anyway, is that the fire started downstairs. Looks like a lamp was being plugged in, and it blew the circuit. Happens in those old houses—wiring's old and decrepit. We've had 8 minor to major incidences in the past 6 months. And the Anderson house was one of the oldest in the town, so I'm not surprised the wiring finally blew."

Dean was waiting for him at the hospital entrance way when he walked up fifteen minutes later.

"You find what you were looking for?" Sam asked. Dean didn't respond, which Sam took to mean he hadn't.

June was on the third floor, resting up after suffering smoke inhalation. She smiled weakly when she saw them.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked gently. She nodded, whispering hoarsely. "Fine, I guess. I'm more worried about the kids."

"They're fine," said Dean. "They released Aaron this morning."

"I know. That's good."

"Mrs. Arnette—do you remember anything about what happened last night?"

Her eyes tightened a bit. "Not really—at least not after it started. But I think…I think this was my fault."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because…I had unplugged one of my lamps—an old decorative one with one of those high wattage bulbs? To let Aaron play his little video game. When he went upstairs last night I bent down and plugged it back in. It was only a few moments after that, and…I just saw flashes. Lots of flashes. I saw the flames, and I couldn't even get up to the children's rooms. I remember hearing little Aaron screaming…and I couldn't…I couldn't…"

Tears were rolling down her face.

"He's fine, Mrs. Arnette," said Sam soothingly. "They're all fine now. You did what you could."

"I couldn't save Amelia," she sobbed. "And I almost hurt them too. I…I just…"

"They're fine. Don't worry. You've done your very best."

"Thank you," she said, sniffling. They stood awkwardly by her bedside as she gathered herself. "I think I should probably go back home. This place has too many memories. Bad memories."

Sam smiled wanly at her. He knew the feeling.

"Do you need anything?" Sam asked finally.

"No. My sister is coming in a few hours. But," she added as they turned from the bed, "could you go and check on the kids? Aaron's been talking about you non-stop since you came yesterday," she nodded to Dean. "I'm sure it would make them feel better."

Dean shrugged. "Sure."

"Thank you."

* * *

They walked across the town's central park, Dean with his hands in his pockets. Sam glanced over at him every now and again, trying to read him. He'd only been up a few hours, but the sun would be setting soon.

Even he had to confess this was hopeless, by now. As strange as it seemed, the fire at the Arnette house has also been a coincidence.

Sam admitted it was strange that it had been a coincidence, and normally it might warrant further investigation. But this was a dead end. There was nothing here—nothing left about ARA, nothing left in Cariño, nothing about that doll. There were no leads, and no answers.

"I wonder if that gravestone might be on record somewhere else?" Dean said suddenly. "In one of the big cities. Maybe they listed earlier births and deaths with the bigger cities."

"Doubtful," said Sam. "The records halls didn't have time to keep up with surrounding towns, particularly ones that were as far away as Cariño. They had to rely on the towns themselves for information. The best bet would be newspaper articles, and if it was a big enough event to be written about in San Francisco, it would be remembered by the townspeople here."

Dean dropped his head. "Alright. So maybe we look for articles anyway. The Andersons were well known. It could have passed out of the town's history but still be on the books."

"Dean…"

"What?" Dean turned, and immediately grimaced at the look on Sam's face. "God—what now?"

"Dean, you know as well as I do that this is—it's a waste of time. This is a dead end. There's nothing _here_."

"Nothing here? Did you see the same fire I did last night?"

"The fire chief confirmed what Mrs. Arnette said. That the fire started in her parlor downstairs. The doll was with Anna. Aaron was in a back room. There was nothing unusual."

"Aaron's name is AA. He was trapped—almost didn't get out. That's not 'unusual'?"

"It's coincidental—I'll admit that. But that's all. The Amlys apparently liked names that begin with 'A'. But they only moved here a year ago. Amelia Arnette died a year before that. They're unconnected."

"Aaron Amly. Amelia Arnette. Annabelle Rebecca Anderson. A history of people dying with those initials. Initials which appear in Dad's journal. Connected by a doll both of them had near or with them. You cannot tell me that there isn't something suspicious there!"

"And what are we supposed to do, Dean? We have no idea what's going on, _if_ anything's going on. There's no information to go on, nothing to track, nothing to trace. Everything is random. Nothing is clear."

"Dad found something."

"He found _something. _But even that's not clear! Maybe, once, this town had an interesting folk tale about ARA. Maybe the doll was once connected to it…maybe that's even what Dad found. But you saw Anna Amly last night! She's the 'ARA' this thing, if there is one, should be going after. But she was perfectly fine! There were no signs of anything going on. Nothing."

"So was that doll. Perfectly fine."

Sam raised a hand to his mouth. He felt frustrated. _And today's the twenty-sixth…_

Dean pointed to the ground, a stubborn, determined look on his face. "Look. we've found more dangerous situations on a lot less information than this, Sammy. There's something here. We just haven't found it yet. We still need to talk with Aaron Amly. Maybe he's the break we need."

"We found the break, Dean. We found the 'ARA' Dad was hinting at. We found the doll. And all we found are a string of random deaths and no signs of haunting whatsoever. All Aaron Amly is going to tell you is what June Arnette told us—that it was an accident, and another coincidence. All we're going to be doing is waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for something we don't even know exists!"

"God—Jeez, come on, Sam! You don't feel something here? In your gut? That feeling that tells you we're missing something? Don't you feel it? That we're missing something? We're close to this thing. I know you know it—I've seen it on your face. We just have to pick out one more piece."

Sam paused.

"Sam?"

"No. I don't, Dean. From the very beginning. No."

"From the very beginning…" Dean laughed sarcastically. "You know what? You're right. YOU. ARE. RIGHT. From the very beginning, you wouldn't. Because you haven't been _here_, Sam. From the very beginning, you've been somewhere else. Or with someone else."

"That's not true."

"Oh no? Who were you thinking about at the Arnette house a few days ago? Who were you thinking of last night? This morning? Everywhere we go, you're here in body, but your mind is somewhere else."

He shook his head. "We're supposed to stick together, Sammy. It's what we do. It's who we are. You got my back, I got yours. For everything. But if you're not here, with me, right now…"

"Then what?"

"Then you're no good to me. You're a liability. You put me, you, and all the people we're trying to help in danger."

Sam stared at him for a moment.

"I need you here."

"And what if I can't be 'here'? What am I supposed to do? You want to know what I'm feeling? You want to know what I want? I want you to understand that there are some things I can't tell you."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because they don't _concern you_, Dean. Or the mission. This is about me. I can't help that. I can't change it. And you can't possibly understand _that_."

"Then explain it to me, Sam. Tell me what you have to do. Tell me where you have to go! But, jeez, Sam! _ Tell me something!_"

Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dean." He stared his brother straight in the eyes. "I just can't."

A shadow slowly passed over Dean's face, and he turned away.

"Dean…I'm sorry. I…"

"Take it."

"What?"

"Take it. Take the car."

Sam's heart was suddenly beating very quickly. "What did you say?"

"I said take the goddamn car, Sam." Dean turned back, tossing the keys to him. "Take it, and get the hell out of here."

_He didn't just… _"Dean."

"Did you hear me? I said to get the hell out of here!"

"Dean, I…"

"GO! NOW, SAM. GET OUT OF HERE!"

Sam swallowed. The look on Dean's face was one he hadn't seen before. But he knew better than to question him.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he managed to choke out as he was walking away. His heart was still pounding. _I'm going to make it. _Dean was watching him, the strange expression fading from his face. He slid into the driver's seat, cranked the car gently, and took off.

He could see Dean turn his back to him in the rearview, his head lowered, rubbing his face with his hand.

Sam gunned the car down the highway.


	6. Chapter 6: Two

Dean watched his brother go, a mixture of emotions running through him.

He respected Sam's right to mourn his girlfriend—he didn't even pretend he could understand that kind of pain—but he was also damn tired of having to convince Sam that there was more to hunting than just chasing after demons and living up to Dad's expectations. There was responsibility, and commitment, too.

_It's not just a ghost hunt, Sam. There's more to it than that._

He hated to let Sam go. He _hated_ it. Especially since he'd taken his freakin' car!

But he also knew that if Sam didn't work out his personal demons, he'd be no good confronting the real things. Whatever was going on in his mind with Jessica—or whoever—wouldn't go away with a pep talk. He needed to face it. And he'd have to do it alone—the last time they'd gotten into an argument, Dean had learned that the hard way. That freakin' fugly stalker scarecrow god had almost had his head.

But Sam had come back. He's figured it out on his own, and had come back for him.

Which is why Dean knew Sam could be trusted. And with the Impala, he'd be coming back soon.

_He'd better be coming back soon. I'll KILL him if anything happens to that car!_

Until then, he was still on the case of the killer doll.

He made a face. _Jeez…that ugly thing still gives me the heebie jeebies. _

An image of Sam, smiling, floated through his mind.

"I DO NOT have a doll thing!" he shouted. A few kids on the nearby playground stopped what they were doing and turned to stare.

He frowned at them, turned, and whiffed at a few blades of grass. Until Sam came back, he'd be on his own. His best bet was to talk with Aaron Amly. Chances were Sam was right, and the fire was a coincidence. But their business was all about coincidences, wasn't it?

If anything had happened, Aaron would know about it.

He stuck his hand in his pocket. He'd drive to Aaron's, ask a few questions, and if he had time, get back to the library—

"Aw. DAMMIT!" _Sam has my freakin' car!_

The kids were still staring.

And the Amly house was down in one of the narrow valleys…

He glanced overhead. The sun was setting, and a few thunderheads were rolling in.

_Storm's coming._

"Perfect," he muttered. He flashed a grin at the kids, who watched as he walked towards the town library, heading down the road that would take him to the Amly residence.

* * *

Thunder rumbled outside the car.

_Storm's coming._

Sam tapped on the steering wheel, clicking on the Impala's lights, though it wasn't quite dark enough for them. He'd been driving for about an hour, he guessed, though he had another couple before he got to Palo Alto.

The look on Dean's face as he'd taken off still hovered in his mind. He'd never really seen his brother look like that before. It may have been anger, though he'd seen Dean angry plenty of times before.

_No. It wasn't anger. He wouldn't have let me go if it was anger._

_He felt betrayed._

Sam swallowed. _I've never seen him look like that._

He knew how much his brother wanted him to be a part of what he and his father did. He knew Dean's intentions were, for the most part, good. But Dean didn't understand—couldn't understand—what life was like without Jessica.

_But Dad could…_

He shook his head. Their father had not cared what happened to his boys, just that they find a way to take care of themselves while he went hunting—while he did what he had to do. Sam was different from…

_Isn't that what you're doing, though? You left Dean behind, in danger, again…_

"No," he said softly. He'd come back to Dean. And there wasn't any real danger in Cariño. Just a mixed-up notion and a whisper of the past.

What he had to do was more important than an antique treasure hunt.

_This is for Jess. For Mom. For me. I have to think of them; otherwise, I'm not going to have the strength to go through this time and again. To do what you do, day in and day out, Dean. But I'll come back for you…_

He caught sight of something on the floor, peeking out beneath his satchel.

_The Journal…_

"Aw. Damn." He stretched over, carefully pulling John Winchester's crinkled journal from the floor. The page flipped open to the entry with the newspaper article stuck in as a bookmark.

Dean must have tossed it in here when they got in this afternoon. He studied it for a quick moment.

_Should I call him?_

He stared at his cell phone. Considering how they'd parted, he didn't know if Dean would even answer the phone. It hadn't been…angry, exactly. But uncomfortable, definitely.

_I'll give him a few hours; if he really needs it, he'll call._

He shoved the book into the passenger's side, closing the cover.

* * *

Dean patted his jacket, clouds of dust puffing off it.

_Damn. _It was one of his favorites, too.

The Amly house had been even further from the center of Cariño than the Arnette house. It had taken him over an hour to get there. And no friendly passers-by to give him a ride. He'd actually had to hoof it. Thunder had rumbled menacingly the whole way; somehow, he'd managed to avoid getting wet.

He tapped on the screen door, trying to brush some of the dust from his hair.

There was a click of high heels on the hardwood floors.

_I wonder…_

She showed herself a few moments later, the case worker who'd been with the kids last night, after the fire. She eyed him suspiciously, giving him a once over with raised eyebrow.

Dean returned the favor. She was very pretty, young and slim, with large blue eyes and dark skin.

"Can I help you?" she said, irritated with his stare.

"Yes…my name is Dean. I'm a friend of the Arnettes, and I was asked by Mrs. Arnette to check up on the kids."

"Do they know you're coming?"

"Uh, no. I only spoke with June this afternoon. She asked if I'd stop by."

The woman glanced behind him. "And how did you get here?"

He followed her gaze. "Oh. I walked."

"You _walked._"

"Honestly…I don't have a car. I walked here" he said with a large grin. She stared at him suspiciously. "Honestly."

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "Do you have any professional identification?"

"Professional identification?"

"The only way that you can see these kids is if you have some kind of professional identification, listing you as being a part of their case file. Without it, you're not seeing them."

"I'm just a family friend. You know, checking up." He flashed her his largest, most brilliant grin.

It had no effect.

"They're doing just fine. Thanks for stopping by."

"Wait!" Dean grabbed at the screen door. "I really want to see them. Mrs. Arnette will never forgive me if I don't ask them how they're doing."

"I told you before; I can't let you see the kids without some kind of identification. Now let go of the door, before I call the cops."

"Look, I don't have any." Dean's patience was wearing thin. Sure, she was actually right, considering he really wasn't who he said he was, but still… "My brother took my car with our identification in it. He's heading to San Francisco."

"Why did you let him do that?"

"It was an emergency."

"Why don't you call him, then?"

"Tried," Dean held up his phone. "No service."

She raised an eyebrow. "No service, no deal."

"Please, lady! I walked all the way here, and now you're going to make me walk all the way back to town?"

"No…I'm only making you walk to the next house over. Maybe you'll have more luck there."

"But I was told by Mrs. Arnette to check…"

"Mrs. Arnette was not the legal guardian of these children. She was granted permission to keep them until their grandparents arrive, with supervised check-ons from the department."

"Please. Sally," he said silkily, giving her his best smile. "Let me just talk with Aaron, then. I want to make sure he's alright."

She raised an eyebrow at his knowing her name. He nodded to the security badge still hanging from around her neck. She glanced down, her expression flattening. "No."

Thunder echoed behind him.

She began to close the door.

"Wait…"

"Mrs. Lewis, do you…" Aaron strolled up behind her, glancing up at Dean, who was watching him through the screen door.

_Oh great…now I'm really done for. The kid's going to wonder about why the freakin' Family Services counselor can't get past the caseworker…_

"DEAN!"

Aaron pushed past Sally and swung open the door, nearly smacking Dean in the face. He wrapped his skinny arms around Dean's chest, holding him tightly, and gave him an extra squeeze—for good measure.

Dean flashed Sally another smile, gesturing down to Aaron. "They love me."

Aaron turned to her. "Dean knows Mrs. Arnette. He used to work for a police department like in Oklahoma or something, so she liked him. He's got lots of cool stories. How's Mrs. Arnette?"

"She's doing okay. I'm sure she's going to try to see you as soon as she gets out." Dean could barely get out the lie. _How in the hell did the kid know?_

"Cool. Can Dean come inside? It looks like it's going to rain."

Sally still looked apprehensive, but seemed a little less suspicious. "He can stay, if he remains on the porch."

Aaron rolled his eyes at her. "Fine."

"Um, I think Simon needed you for something, Mrs. Lewis," Aaron said, taking a seat on the wicker settee and flipping up his game.

"You stay on this porch, Aaron," she said harshly. "Don't go anywhere with him. I'll be watching you."

"Yes, ma'am," Aaron droned. Sally flashed Dean another suspicious glare, and marched inside.

"Geez," Dean said, flopping into the wicker chair. "Talk about your dictator case workers."

"Well, you can't blame her. I mean, you really _don't _have a right to be here."

"Right." Dean eyed Aaron suspiciously. "How did you figure that out, by the way? And why are you covering for me?"

Aaron shrugged. "When she didn't ask me if two grief counselors came to visit, I figured you weren't working for them. But you stuck around to talk with us, and you came back after the fire. I figured you were okay."

"You really should be more careful. I could be a, well…I could be a bad guy."

"You mean like a pedophile?"

"Okay, no, not _that_, but something bad. And how do you know what that is, anyway?"

"Um. I'm ten, not two. And I used to live in San Francisco. You'd probably be surprised what kids learn there."

"Probably not, but whatever. How's your brother and sister?"

"Okay. Simon's all freaked out and stuff—it'll be good for grandma and grandpa to get here. I think Anna's okay. She's a baby."

"Nothing weird's been going on with her?"

To his surprise, Aaron suddenly stiffened. "Why do you ask that?"

"Did something happen?"

"She's fine. Nothing happened."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Aaron."

"I said nothing happened! Jeez!" He jumped up from the chair.

"Wait!" Dean grabbed him around the arm. "Stop…come on. Aaron." He turned the boy around to face him. "Aaron, calm down. There's nothing wrong if you saw something weird. _Trust_ me."

Aaron stopped, staring at him.

"Sometimes, it's not all in your head," Dean said softly, letting him go. "What you think shouldn't be real—what you want to believe isn't real. Sometimes, it's really real, Aaron. And there's nothing wrong with that."

Sally Lewis stuck her head outside the door. "Aaron, are you okay?"

He didn't move.

"Aaron?" she repeated, her eyes jumping from him to Dean.

"Yeah," he muttered, finally moving, though still staring at Dean. "I'm fine."

"Dropped his video game," Dean laughed cautiously. "We're cool."

"I'm going to check on Anna," Sally said. "Call me if you need anything." Her tone was still cool, but she looked less apprehensive.

"Gotcha." He waited until she left, his smile fading as the door shut behind her. "Now…tell me what happened last night. Please. Aaron, if something's happening to your family it might try and hurt you again. I need to know what's going on."

"But…it was weird. It was…you won't believe me. It was too weird. Even you would think it's weird."

"Aaron, _trust me. _I _will_ believe you."

"Even if it was, like, ghost stuff? I mean, that's weird, right? All that stuff's not real, right?"

"Don't I wish," Dean mumbled. "I'll believe you, Aaron. _Especially_ if it was ghost stuff."

Aaron's eyes widened.

Dean smiled reassuringly at him. "It's not weird. You're old enough to understand it, but that doesn't mean you have to be afraid of it. I told you before—this is what I do. And I'll do everything I can to protect you. Now tell me, what happened last night."

Aaron sat down. The Gameboy trembled in his hand.

"I…I went upstairs to check on Anna. And I heard a baby laughing in the back room, where Mrs. Arnette's daughter, Amelia, used to sleep. I mean, I guess where she used to sleep. When I went in, the door shut behind me. It locked behind me."

"Then what?"

"I saw Anna."

"Anna? How did she get in that room?"

"I dunno. She was just there."

"Are you sure it was Anna?"

Aaron glanced up, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know. But it looked like Anna. But she was…she was…"

"Was what?"

"She was dead. She was dead. She screamed like that kid ghost on that Japanese movie and she was dead."

Dean reached out, laying a hand on Aaron's head. "It's okay, Aaron. It wasn't Anna."

"But…it looked like…"

"But it wasn't. It wasn't Anna. That little girl wasn't Anna. She might have looked like Anna, but it wasn't her."

"Then who was she? And why was she crying?"

"Aaron," Dean stared the little boy in the face. "Was the doll anywhere near you, last night?"

Aaron blinked. "The doll?"

"Anna's doll. Amelia's doll. The doll with the teardrop on its face. Olivia."

"Y-Yeah. I…I was holding it."

"You had it with you in the room?"

"Yeah…" Aaron got a far-off look. "It said 'mine.'"

"Who said 'mine'? The doll?"

"No…Anna…or the little girl…or whatever…it said 'mine.'"

Dean swallowed. "You're sure?"

"Yeah. 'Mine.' Just like Anna does. It was talking about the doll, wasn't it? Isn't that what you're trying to say? Do you think…is that what caused this? The doll? That ghost wanted that doll?"

"Aaron, listen to me," Dean said forcefully, putting his hands on Aaron's shoulders. "I need you to go and get me that doll. I have to destroy it. I think that whatever is causing that little girl to come and attack your family is connected to that doll. I have to get rid of it."

"You think that the doll is the reason the fire started?"

"I don't know. I think they're connected somehow—I'm not completely sure. But what happened to you proved that something is attacking your family. To be safe, we need to destroy that doll."

"The doll."

"Yes, the doll. You have to get it from Anna. You have to bring it to me now."

"Wait a minute," Aaron lifted his eyes, to stare straight at Dean. "You said it's attacking my family."

Dean swallowed. "I meant…"

"My Mom." Tears rose in Aaron's eyes. "My Mom had that doll in her car."

"Aaron."

"Do you think that little girl killed my Mom? She was coming after her doll, wasn't she? Just like she did with me. She wanted her doll back, and she killed my mom. Do you think that?"

"Aaron…"

"_Do__YOU_?"

Dean sighed. "Maybe."

Aaron's lip began to tremble. "It killed my Mom. But it's just a doll. It's just a toy. She didn't mean to take it. She didn't mean to take it with her." He began to sob.

Dean watched awkwardly for a moment, then pulled the little boy closer, drawing him into a hug. "It's okay, Aaron. It's all right. Your Mom didn't know. Neither did you. It's not your fault."

"I wish I had known. If I'd known I could have broken it. Or something. I could have done something." He sniffled, stepping back. "I could have saved them."

"Sometimes you can't save everybody," Dean said softly. "No matter how much you want to, there are always things out of your control. You just have to do your best. That's what you've been doing—your best—and you have to keep doing it. For Simon's sake and for Anna's sake."

He rose. "You've done what you have to. You let me handle the rest. Now, let's go get that doll."

* * *

The rain was coming down harder, now. Sam had flicked on the wipers a while ago, and the road was becoming blurry in the darkness.

He still had a long way to go before Palo Alto. But he was on his way.

The journal caught his eye again, the pages fluttering carelessly open. He'd had a taut, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach since the rain started.

The pages fell apart, a sheaf of paper fluttering to the floor. Sam glanced up in front of him, then reached down to grab it.

_Heaven forbid I should lose a piece of this thing. Dean really would kill me._

He studied it quickly for a moment, moving to place it back in the book.

And suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The Impala hydroplaned on the slick road.

"Whoa!" He turned into the skid, bringing the car to a gentle rest at the side of the road, and punched the hazards.

He flipped the book back open, pulling out the article he'd just yanked from the floor. It had a picture of two girls, dressed in pinafores, smiling at an old-fashioned camera. It was a supernatural occurrence John Winchester had tracked to the North Woods—the murder of a family by a crazy father. A horrific haunting, and the basis of more than one ghost story.

What caught his attention wasn't the story—it was the picture. Two girls in pinafores, smiling at the camera. Two girls of the same height, holding the same dolls, dressed in the same dresses.

Twins.

He flipped back to the pages with the doll from Cariño. The initials ARA jumped out at him. September 24th, 1902.

When they'd first looked at the journal, they'd thought it had been the name of the owner…Annabelle Rebecca Anderson, who'd been born on September 24th, 1902, who'd died in 1984, of natural causes, at the age of 82. Who'd owned the doll her entire life.

She would have been two in 1904.

1904.

Had he checked in 1904? _San Francisco…_

What had Mrs. Arnette said about her house?

_There was two of everything in there!_

The Andersons hadn't been from Cariño. They'd owned a vacation home there. They were tied to the town…but not exactly. Could it have been enough to bury a child there, but not want her to be remembered?

_She was nutty…but when have you not known rich people to be nutty?_

She went crazy…why? Could it be…

The two Jessicas from his dream stood out in his mind, side by side, like the twin girls from the movie.

_And Anna too…she's only two years old…_

The image of her clutching the doll, arguing "mine" fluttered through his mind.

_Mine._

He pulled out his cell, and dialed Dean's number. The phone rang through.

_Come on, Dean. Answer. Don't be angry._

He dialed again. It rang through. _Come on, come on._

A third time, and it rang through. "Come on, Dean! PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE!"

He sat for a moment, letting the wipers flick quietly across the glass.

Then he dialed a number he knew by heart.

"Amos? Hey, it's Sam. Yeah, yeah, good to talk to you too. Could you do me a favor? Could you look up a birth record for me? Hospital in San Francisco. Look for children born on September 24th, 1902—twins. One of them would be named Annabelle. Get back to me as soon as you can. And do me a favor? Dial up Dean—my phone service can't reach him—and tell him I'm on my way back to Cariño."

* * *

Dean marched into the house, Aaron in tow. Sally Lewis came down the stairs at the sound of the screen door banging shut.

"What are you doing in here? I told you to stay outside. Now get out, before I call the cops."

"Ms. Lewis, where's Anna?" Aaron asked. Dean didn't say anything.

"What? Aaron, I told you…"

"WHERE'S ANNA!" he shouted.

"Lower your voice, Aaron," she said forcefully, though with a gentle tone. "She's upstairs in her room."

Aaron dashed up the steps, dropping his video game on a nearby table.

"Aaron, don't run!" Sally said. "What did you say to him?" she asked Dean accusingly.

"Look, Sally, it really is in your best interest to let me do my job."

"Excuse me?"

"You want to protect these kids? Then you have to trust me. Because that's what I'm trying to do."

"You expect me to…"

"DEAN! SHE'S NOT HERE!"

Aaron came barreling down the steps. "She's not there, she's not there!"

"What?"

"Anna! SHE'S GONE!"

Dean bolted up the steps, Sally Lewis following behind. He swung past a few doors, swinging open the one that had a pink-ribboned nameplate attached to the door.

The room was empty.

He check the closet, and under the crib. There was no sign of Anna or her doll.

"Was she here?" he asked Sally, whirling around to face her. "Did you see her here?"

"She was in here just a moment ago!" Sally cried. "I just checked on her."

"Check Simon's room," he ordered. "Aaron, where's your Mom's room?"

"Down here."

Dean pushed past the case worker, to a large door at the end of the hall. The room was dark. He strode through it quickly, flinging open the closet doors, the bathroom door, even the cabinets.

She was nowhere to be found.

Sally came from Simon's room, an arm wrapped around the little boy, who was sucking his thumb. "She's not in there."

Dean glanced around, opening a hall closet. Empty.

"Downstairs?"

Sally shrugged. "I don't know how she could have gotten past me…"

He jumped down the stairs, scrambling through the kitchen. Sally checked the living room. Aaron opened the downstairs bathroom, but there was no sign of Anna anywhere.

"I'll check the garage," Sally said, leaving Simon in the kitchen with Dean. He rubbed a hand through his hair.

_Where the hell did she go? She's a freakin' toddler!_

"Anna," said Simon quietly, through his thumb.

"What?" asked Aaron. Dean moved over to the window, where Simon was staring.

Anna was looking up at the house, her Olivia doll clutched in her hands. She was standing at the edge of a forested area. Just staring.

"ANNA!" screamed Aaron.

Dean flung open the door. There was a flash, and an explosion of thunder rattled the house. The windows shook, wind chimes hung over the porch clanging against the glass.

Simon screamed. Aaron threw an arm around him.

Rain started to pour down from the sky. Anna continued to stare at the house, unmoved by the water. Dean watched her for a moment, poised at the doorway.

She turned away from them, and moved into the forest.

_Great…_

"Aaron…stay here. Tell Sally where Anna went to. Don't go outside I'm going to go get Anna."

"Dean…"

"_Don't go outside._ You'll get caught in the storm. Don't worry. I promise, I'll bring her back."

Aaron swallowed. "Promise?"

"Promise."


	7. Chapter 7: Lake

Sam tore through the rain, his wipers going full speed, trying to see into the darkness. Cariño couldn't be too far away, now.

He'd just spoken with Amos.

_Yeah, Sam. Twin girls, born on September 24th, 1902, at the general hospital. Big news—they were born to the Anderson family, real powerful back then. Annabelle Rebecca and Audrey Rose."_

"_What happened to Audrey?"_

"_That's a bit strange. Nobody seems to know. There's no death certificate on file in San Fran. But I did find an article talking about how a little girl drowned in a pond near a town named Cariño two years later, sometime in the spring."_

"_Was it Audrey?"_

"_See, that's where it gets funny. Article didn't mention names, and there was only one on file. But after that, there was nothing mentioned about twins and the Andersons. It was all about the little 'girl'—Annabelle. She was the one who got all the attention. Audrey just…well, she just disappeared."_

"_Anything else? Please, Amos, I need something!"_

"_Well, there ain't many people still living who'd know something about it, but I spoke with a historian who knows the area. Said that Elizabeth Anderson went regularly to Cariño every spring, right around now, and stayed for a month. She didn't associate with society really, after that. Most people thought she was just crazy."_

"_And there's nothing else on Audrey Anderson?"_

"_Nothing. No baptism, no coming out, no marriage, no nothing. No hospital—not even dental. She just disappeared, Sam."_

She just disappeared.

_She didn't disappear. She died. She died in Cariño, and it has something to do with that doll._

Cariño couldn't be too far away.

"_One more thing, Sammy. I couldn't reach Dean. Maybe he's the one not getting service. Or he ain't answerin,' one of the two."_

He hoped it wasn't too far away.

* * *

Thunder boomed overhead.

Dean glanced up, keeping an eye on the sky. With the trees as tall as they were, he'd be lucky not to get the shock of his life.

_Well, actually, I guess I've already had that…_

He could barely see through the pouring rain. The Amly house was somewhere behind him, and the area where Anna had walked into the trees was nearby.

He entered the canopy of the tall cedars, the rains dying away slightly with the cover.

"Anna?"

His voice echoed through the hollow of the trees. It was chilly out here.

_Damn little kid's going to catch pneumonia._

"ANNA!" He jogged through the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of something white. The doll she had in her hands was nearly as big as she was—she couldn't be walking very fast.

_She shouldn't have been able to go out the door and down the steps in the first place…_

Something glimmered in the distance. He turned, and jogged out after it.

* * *

The rain was coming down hard, now. He could have sworn he hadn't driven that far out of Cariño.

"_One more thing, Sammy. I couldn't reach Dean. Maybe he's the one not getting service. Or he ain't answerin,' one of the two."_

_Come on, Dean._

Sam punched "talk" again. Dean's number flashed on the screen.

_I couldn't reach Dean. He ain't answering…_

It rang through.

Sam clicked it off, his thumb tapping the wheel impatiently.

_We're supposed to stick together, Sammy. It's what we do. It's who we are. You got my back, I got yours. For everything._

"Dammit. Pick UP." He tried again.

This time, there was no ring.

It went straight to the mailbox.

Dean wouldn't ignore him this long. And he certainly wouldn't ignore Amos.

_His battery is dead. Or something happened to it…_

Sam slammed his foot to the floor, gunning the car as fast as it would go.

* * *

Dean really wished Sam was here.

The forest was so wide, there was no way to tell which direction Anna had gone. Shadows, and the lightning flashes, played with his eyes, making it hard for him to pick out what was real and what was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Sam could back him up, help him out.

_But Sam's in San Francisco by now…_

Sam wasn't here. He'd have to go it alone.

The forest seemed to be getting darker. The rain wasn't letting up at all.

What time was it?

He yanked out his phone.

"Aww…je…dammit!"

The phone had cut off. _Battery—or shot 'cuz of the rain._

"Perfect. Alone in the middle of freakin' Brigadoon, in a monsoon, searching for the Speedy Gonzalez of Toddlers. Brilliant. This is not how I wanted to spend my night, Sam!" he yelled to the trees.

There was a soft sound, like a breath of air, which floated towards him.

_Was that…laughter?_

The sound came again, from the northwest.

He stuffed his phone in his pocket, and picked his way through the trees.

* * *

Sam trucked back to the Impala, holding his coat overhead. The rain was pouring down on the valley, soaking everything within miles of Cariño.

The motel owner said Dean hadn't returned.

Dean's phone was dead—probably shorted in the rain, or maybe out of batteries.

Either way, he couldn't get in touch with him.

Dean had gone to visit Aaron—Sam was certain he was there. At the Amly house.

_Please let him be all right._

Amos had called him back, right before he'd entered Cariño.

_"It was scratched from the books. By the family. Probably paid someone off to burn the death certificate in Cariño, too. But she died there, Sam. Audrey Rose. Drowned. I found a newspaper article talking about it in the Boston archives, where the Mom's family was from. The Andersons had a reach in California, I tell you what—they destroyed nearly every bit of information about it—wouldn't touch the birth certificate, of course, for Annabelle's sake—but they basically pretended like Audrey didn't exist. Like it had never happened. But they couldn't get them all."_

_"Amos…what happened?"_

_"She was drowned…some say she was killed by her sister."_

_"What!"_

_"They were only two, so it seems far-fetched…but the paper had an eyewitness who saw the body pulled from the pond. They said the twin was watching when she was pulled up. Acted like nothing was wrong. Went straight up to the body—didn't cry, didn't scream, nothing. She just took that doll out of her dead sister's arms. Hugged it, the paper says, and said..."_

"_Mine," Sam finished breathlessly._

"_Yeah, that's right. 'Mine.' They said the Mother went crazy after that. So they pretended like there'd never been another girl. That Annabelle was an only child. I'm guessing she forgot herself that she was a twin. But that little girl still died, Sam. And it wasn't a pleasant death. My guess is, that spirit of hers is probably still hanging around, looking for her doll."_

"And maybe," Sam said softly, to himself, "her sister."

_Annabelle. Annabeth. Both only two years old._

He raced through the town square. The Amly house was down from the Arnette house.

Not too far, now.

_Dean…_

_

* * *

_

"ANNA!"

Dean screamed out into the storm. It was no good. His voice was picked up by the wind. "ANNAAAA!"

The baby girl was nowhere to be seen.

_Where the hell did she go to now? _

"AAAAANNNNAAAA!"

He could hear the voice of the Sally Lewis, somewhere towards the road.

_I could have sworn I heard laughter. Must have been the wind…_

He heard the sound again. Light, even laughter.

It was coming from right in front of him.

He dashed up a small knoll. A pond unfolded before him, raindrops dotting the surface. Up the hill across the water, he could barely make out the backside of a familiar house. A burned wreckage of a house...

_The Arnettes…_

Anna was standing at the edge of the pond, holding onto the doll.

"Anna," Dean panted, trotting down the hill. "Good grief, kiddo. You had us all worried."

She was staring at something in the center of the pond.

"Anna…"

He bent down next to her. "Anna, it's time to go home. Your brothers are worried about you. Come on." He moved to pick her up in his arms.

A roar sounded around them.

Dean watched as a hole suddenly parted in the center of the lake. The water whipped towards them, fanning out in a geyser. He picked up Anna, and started away from the lake.

"Mine," the little girl whimpered, clutching her doll tightly. "Mine."

_Miinnneeeee…_

Something was whispering through the trees. Leaves swirled all around them. Overhead, the lightning crackled.

_Miiinnneeeeee…_

Dean glanced behind him, nearly tripping over some of the exposed roots of the great trees. There was nothing there.

"MINE!" Anna screamed.

He faced forward, stumbling to his knees. A baby was in front of him, her bright blond hair curled into two tiny pigtails. She wore a pretty white dress, Victorian style. He glanced at the baby in his hands, doing a double take.

They looked exactly alike. If Anna hadn't felt so warm and alive in his hands, he would have wondered who he was holding.

"Mine," the little girl said quite plainly. Her little pink finger rose, pointing at Anna.

At Anna's doll.

"Mine."

"Anna," Dean whispered in the toddler's ear. "Give the girl the doll."

Anna shook her head, her wet, light hair swishing against his chin. "No."

"Anna," he repeated, trying to get a hand on the doll. "Please."

"No," she protested with a small, rosy-lipped pout. "Mine."

"Mine," replied the girl in front of them. Her eyes were a strange color—blue?

_No. Silver._

"Mine." The sound of her voice dropped, rolling into a roar. "Mine."

The rain was coming down in a silver sheet, soaking them to the core. His breath began to mist in front of him. The wind was picking up, swirling the dried leaves around them.

The little girl in front of them began to emit a strange light. Her face hollowed, taking on a grayish tint. "Mine," she moaned.

"Anna!" Dean said forcefully. "Give her the doll!"

"NO! MINE! MY DOLL! MOMMY MINE! MY DOLL!"

"ANNA!" He struggled with her, trying to pull it from her hands. She was strong.

_It was her mother's gift to her. She doesn't want to let that go._

"Anna, please. Please. Your Mommy will understand."

Crocodile tears were rolling down Anna's cheek. The wind was growing extremely cold.

"Please, Anna. Your Mommy loves you. She wants you to live. She won't care if you lose the doll."

"Mommy…" she sobbed.

"I'll get it back for you…"

Her grip on the doll loosened a little. He yanked it out of her grasp, tossing it towards the figure in front of them. "TAKE IT."

"Mine." The girl said, reaching out a ragged, bluish hand to grab the doll.

She pointed at him again. "Mine."

"You have what you want!" he shouted, his voice being drowned by the storm. "Go! Leave her alone!"

"No. Mine. Anna. Mine."

"Anna…" he glanced down at the sniffling little girl in his arms.

_Oh God…_

"No. She doesn't belong to you."

"Anna. Mine."

Dean began to back away, cradling Anna close to him. There was nowhere to turn—nowhere to run.

"MINE!"

The figure before him morphed completely—a decrepit, sunken faced little child appeared before him, her eyes black hollows, her skin blue, ragged, her clothes rotted. "MY ANNA. MINE."

"No," he whispered.

A powerful burst of energy slammed into him, knocking him off his feet, a full twenty yards into the air. He cradled Anna against his chest, preparing for impact.

Dean crashed into the trunk of a giant tree, his head slamming into the wood. He slid to the ground, his entire body aching from the force of the blow. He gasped, trying to catch his breath. His back was on fire, and his head was pounding. Anna had her tiny hands wrapped into his leather coat, her head buried in his shoulder. She was shaking.

"It's all right," he whispered. "You okay? Be strong for me, okay?" He winced as he got up, glancing around behind him. The trees extended up and all around them.

The ghost had disappeared.

"Hang on." He took off his jacket and flannel, bundling her up.

The rain was falling down, silently. Thunder was still rumbling, but at a distance. The biting cold had subsided. He knew the house lay in the direction of the south, somewhere.

"Hang on, Anna."

He picked her up, and took off.

* * *

Sam raced down the drive of the Amly house, a sawed off shotgun, filled with rock salt, in the waist of his pants. He banged on the door. "DEAN! AARON!"

He heard scrambling inside the house, and a few moments later, it swung open. Aaron stared at him. "Mr. Sam!"

"Is Dean here?" Sam panted.

"He…he…hurry! He went in the back, he went after Anna! Ms. Lewis is looking for them too!"

"What happened to Anna?" Sam cried, following Aaron through the house to the back door.

"She got out. She took her doll with her, and she went into the forest. It's been raining a lot now."

"It's raining," whimpered Simon, who was sitting curled in the corner of the kitchen.

"Did you see anyone else?" Sam asked, opening the porch door.

"No," Aaron said cautiously. He shoved Sam outside, closing the door. "But I think Dean went after the little girl."

"Little girl?"

"The one who looks like Anna. She tried to…she…" Aaron's lower lip trembled. "She killed my mom."

Sam gave him a sympathetic look, placing a hand on his head.

"She's mean, Sam," Aaron said. "She might hurt Anna. And Dean."

"She won't hurt Anna," Sam said, taking the stairs off the porch three at a time. "Dean won't let her."

"That's what Dean said!" Aaron called back.

_God…Dean…_

Sam raced into the forest.

* * *

Dean's left knee was radiating pain. He'd stumbled a few times. The cold had subsided, but it hadn't disappeared. The entity was still nearby—and was still after Anna. He stumbled into the deep roots of the tree, which were nearly large enough to hide him, and Anna.

_Mine…_

Anna whimpered.

"You have to stay real quiet for me, okay? Okay, babe? Just real quiet. Be strong for me." He lifted the bundle in his leather jacket, trying to ignore the burning pain in his legs and back, and took off once more.

Something white shimmered in front of him. He turned away from it, sprinting through two tall cedars. The rain was no more than mist now, the storm having past, though the wood remained silent, and cold.

There was another white flash. He turned again, his breath coming out in ragged puffs, his eyes burning.

A familiar knoll emerged in front of him.

He charged up it—and stopped.

The lake spread out in front of him, the water rippling a bit from the wind.

Water droplets around him began to frost over. His breath was a cloud in front of his face.

_Minnneeee…_

He turned, his back to the lake. The decrepit figure had appeared in front of him, the Olivia doll clutched in her hand. She pointed at the bundle in his arms. "Mine."

He grinned. "I don't think so. I guess ghosts _can_ make mistakes."

He shook out the bundle, the leather jacket dropping away.

Anna wasn't with him.

He greeted the ghost with a face full of salt. Common table salt, but that's all he had—Sam had taken everything else with the Impala.

"Mine," he snarled, grabbing for the doll.

The ghost screamed, dissolving in the face of the salt, which most demons and ghosts could not tolerate. Dean sprinted down the knoll, limping slightly, the doll clutched in his hand.

A roar filled the woods.

He felt a force whirl around him, stripping the doll painfully from his hand, and wrapping around his chest. He struggled against it, but immediately he knew it was fruitless. An entity filled with hate, seeking revenge for some unknown sin—and the more it sought, the stronger it became.

Something that felt like a fist slammed into his middle, sending him flying through the air. There was nothing to grab, nothing to hold onto. Just the water rushing towards him. He lifted his arms to his face.

The cold, biting water of the lake pierced his skin, through his t-shirt. Dean tried to regain his balance, but it was difficult in the churning water. The force around his middle still had him anchored, and, like a great weight, was dragging him down into the middle of the pond.

Tendrils waved around his legs—the pond grass, growing long and flowing with the water, brushed against him tenderly. It tangled itself around his arms, his waist, his neck.

His chest was burning.

Above him, a figure in white was floating down, towards him.

A cold, empty face, with a single teardrop.

_Jeez…not that…anything but…_

The Olivia doll floated down, smiling her empty smile at him.

He thrashed against the tendrils, against the force holding him down. It was no use. They were too strong. His lungs were on fire.

The doll landed on his chest, its cold porcelain face staring emptily at him.

_Just perfect…_

His vision was getting blurry.

_Anna…I hope you can get away…_

"Anna," he mumbled. Water rushed into his mouth. His vision was growing blacker, and his chest hurt. He had to take a breath.

_Sammy…_

There was nothing but darkness.


	8. Chapter 8: Dust

"DEAN!"

Sam tore through the woods, wandering blindly in the darkness. There was a general chill all around him, as though the late spring night had suddenly grown colder when he entered the shadow of the trees. A fine mist was all that was left of the thunderstorm that had passed through.

"DEAN!"

"ANNA!"

A female voice startled him. He dashed through the trees to the left, and nearly collided with the pretty woman who had been with the kids the night before.

"Who are you?" the woman asked hurriedly, steadying herself.

"Sam. Dean's my brother."

"He went in here looking for Anna," she replied, not bothering to introduce herself. "I can't find a sign of either one of them."

"They went in here?"

"Yeah, about thirty minutes ago."

Sam nodded, and moved forward. The woman followed, dodging trees and roots. They pushed on for about five minutes. The woods were getting noticeably colder.

"Do you feel that?" she shivered.

"Yeah."

_Audrey Rose._

The ghost was still active. Dean hadn't been able to stop it.

_Dean…_

There was a small sob from the far corner, in the shadow of an oak tree. The woman pushed past him, bending down into the deep roots.

"Anna!" she stood up, cradling the little girl in her arms. "Anna, baby, are you alright?"

Anna stared at him, her eyes welling with tears. "Mommy. Doll."

"Someone took your doll?"

Anna nodded. "Mine."

"I'll get it back for you," he said.

"Sam." The woman held up a flannel shirt. Anna had been wrapped in it.

It was the one Dean had been wearing earlier that day. _He put her here—to protect her…_

"Take her out of here," he instructed. "Take all three kids and lock the doors of that house, do you understand me?"

"Wh—"

"Don't ask questions, just trust me…please."

The woman stared at him for a moment, then nodded, and trotted off with Anna.

Sam swallowed, and pressed further into the woods. "DEAN!"

There was no sound, only a deep, echoing silence.

"DEAN! DAMMIT, ANSWER ME!"

His breath was coming out in puffs. He stared at it as it dissolved in front of him. It was getting colder.

He followed the chill, turning left, then right. A small knoll rose in front of him.

As Sam climbed it, the burnt wreckage of the old Anderson house rose in front of him, far in the distance. Directly behind it—directly in front of him—was the pond where Audrey Rose had died.

Dean's leather jacket, and a scattering of common salt, were by the lake shore.

There was something floating in the water at the center.

"Oh, God…NO!" He ripped off his jacket, tossing his gun aside, and dove in. He cut as quickly as he could through the water, paddling to the thing in the middle of the lake. He reached it, flipping it over.

The Olivia doll.

Sam glanced around, puzzled. "DEAN?"

His mind raced. _Why'd she give up the doll? What happened to the ghost? Where's Dean…_

_She died at the bottom of the pond…trapped in the grass._

Sam immediately dove under the water.

The pond wasn't too deep—maybe fourteen feet. It was clear enough that he could see straight to the bottom.

Straight to Dean, wrapped in the pond grass, his face smooth, and empty.

Sam cried out through the water, and dove downwards. He couldn't see his brother's eyes.

_Please don't let them be open. Please don't let his eyes be open._

_Open means death. _

He reached him within a few second, tearing at the tendrils wrapped around his neck, chest and arms. His eyes were closed.

Sam grasped him around the chest, pulling upwards. He felt a slight tug, and then suddenly they were floating smoothly to the top, to the clear air above the pond. He broke the surface, yanking Dean's head above the water.

"DEAN! Dean, answer me!"

His brother felt cold. He pulled him through the water as quickly as he could, to the empty sand of the shore.

He wasn't breathing. There wasn't a pulse.

_Come on…_

Sam felt a familiar wave of panic washing through him. "Come on, come on!"

He started chest compressions, breathing into Dean's mouth every sixteen counts.

_Come on…_

_1…2…3…4…5…6…_

_Come on, you idiot! Don't die on me now!_

_1…2…3…_

"COME ON! DEAN!"

_1…2…3…4…_

The panic began to spread. _It can't be. It can't be just me and Dad. It has to be you! Come on! Breathe!_

Dean spluttered for a moment, pond water gushing from his mouth and nose. Sam sat him up, trembling, a wave of euphoria running through him. He slapped his brother on the back. Dean choked up a bit more water and sat up fully, wiping at his mouth.

"What happened?"

"You do this to me too many times, you SOB," Sam laughed shakily.

"Sammy?" Dean stared up at him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Saving your ass, apparently," said Sam. "I swear, Dean, you can't do anything the easy way, can you?"

Dean half-smiled at him. "It's part of my charm." His eyes grew serious. "Did you see Anna?"

"She's with the case worker."

"But she's alright?"

"She's fine, last time I checked."

"What about that…thing?"

"You mean…this?" Sam grasped the doll, waving it in front of him.

"JEEZ!" Dean jumped back. "Don't wave that thing around!"

Sam grinned. "Still got a doll thing?"

"Hey, you can call me a pedophiliophobiac or whatever the hell you want, just keep that thing away from me. The ghost's after it—and Anna. We need to find her."

"The ghost has a name—Audrey Rose."

"Audrey Rose?"

"Yeah. She's Annabelle Anderson's twin sister."

"_Sister?"_

"Yeah. Apparently, they were arguing over this," he held up the doll. "I think Annabelle pushed her into this pond over it, and she got tangled in the weeds and drowned. The way Annabelle acted, it's like she didn't care."

"So the ghost is seeking revenge on her sister."

"Yeah…except her sister's dead, so she's finding substitutes. Like Amelia Arnette…and some of the other kids involved in that 'A.R.A' story."

"Except not many kids have those initials, so it's not much of a story."

"Right. It just looks like random drownings."

"So if the ghost is after those with the initials of her and her sister, why Patty Amly?"

Sam shrugged. "My only guess is that she's like the Mom. Audrey's mother was told to forget Audrey ever existed. I guess her spirit equated Patty and the doll with abandonment."

"Great. So how do we get rid of her?"

"That, I don't know. Typically rock salt, but we have to destroy the focus."

"The doll's the focus. Destroy the doll."

"Shouldn't we wait until the ghost is here? Maybe destroy them together?"

"How, Sam? One of them's a ghost, one of them's a doll. It's not like we can shoot them both with salt."

"Maybe not with salt, but…"

"But what?"

"Here…you take this." He shoved the doll at Dean.

"No way."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Come on, Dean. Take it. It's not going to strangle you."

"Hey. The last thing I remember before blacking out in that pond was this creepy thing's face staring straight at me. It might very well be possessed."

Sam held the doll out to him.

Dean snatched the doll from him. "Fine. What are you up to?"

"I've got to run and get something. You stay here. Take this," he handed Dean the sawed off shotgun. "Find Anna, and make sure she's safe. If this thing's going to reappear, it's going to be near her. And after that doll."

"Right, right, child of Chucky, I got it." He started to trot off. Sam jogged behind him.

* * *

In a few moments they were through the woods. The Amly house appeared in view, lights on in the kitchen. Dean started off towards the porch. Sam didn't follow him—instead, he turned to the side of the house, wearing a slightly sheepish expression. Dean glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow. "What now?"

"I, uh…gotta borrow the Impala one more time."

"_What_?"

"Real quick, Dean, I promise."

"SAM."

"I'll be back in less than five. I promise." He turned backwards, swinging the keys. "Don't you go jumping into anymore ponds, you hear me?"

"I didn't jump…you better not get even a scratch on that car, do you hear me? If you so much as dent it, I swear to God, Sam, you'll have more than this freakin' baby doll to worry about!"

Dean clambered up the porch steps, banging on the door. There was a whisper of movement in the house, and Sally Lewis appeared a few moments later, staring cautiously out the door. She cracked it open.

"What are you…how did you get back?"

"Oh, come on," Dean said angrily. "I just saved that kid's life, and you're _still _not gonna let me in?"

She frowned. Aaron appeared behind her, staring at the doll in Dean's hand apprehensively.

"Why'd you bring that back here?"

"I had to," he said, pushing past Sally. "Where's Anna?"

"In the den—in her pack n' play."

"Don't let her out of your sight, do you hear me?" he said.

"Where's Sam?" Aaron asked, pushing between them. "Why are you all wet?"

"Sam went on an errand." _For what, I don't know—probably should have asked. _"I went for a swim."

"In the pond?"

Dean flashed Aaron a forced smile. "I didn't have much of a choice." He entered the living room. Anna was in a portable playpen, watching her brother Simon as he raced cars on the TV. When she saw Dean, she stretched her little hands towards him. He picked her up, letting her have hold of the doll.

"See, little girl? I told you I'd get it back."

Aaron raised an eyebrow at him.

"What? Haven't you ever seen a grow guy pick up a kid before?"

The lights flickered around the house. Simon whined as his video game flashed off, and restarted. "Fantastic," Dean muttered. _I shouldn't have let her hold the doll._ "Lock the doors," he instructed Sally. "Aaron, I want you to go and get as much table salt as you can find."

Both left without hesitation.

Anna clutched at the doll. Simon started to whimper. "Don't worry," Dean said gruffly. "Everything will be alright."

Aaron returned a few moments later with a large container of iodized salt. "Will this work?"

"Perfect." He set Anna down in the playpen, who cried when he let her go. "Just a moment, kiddo. I gotta stop that terrible two-year old from coming back." He circled the playpen, along with a large area next to it, with the salt.

Sally came back, and stopped in the entryway. "What are you doing?"

"Never mind that, just get over here in the circle."

"Are you crazy?"

"Does this look crazy? Never mind, don't answer that. Look, you know something weird is going on, so let's just pretend that it's not so weird and you'll actually be nice and do something I ask you for once."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Come on, please. For the sake of the kids?"

She pursed her lips together, but marched forward, careful not to disrupt the circle. Dean leapt out of it, picked up Simon, and set him inside. Aaron was the last to step in.

The lights flickered again, and the wind outside the house began to rattle the doors. Dean watched the flickering for a moment.

_It's close._

He moved back inside the circle, picking Anna up. She clutched at his t-shirt, damp from the pond.

The lights flickered a final time, and went out. Simon gasped. Aaron flicked on his video game, casting a little light in the area.

_Come on, Sam._

The wind rattled against the windows. Dean raised a hand to the doll.

"You have to say goodbye to it, now, Anna."

She looked up at him, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry. I know you want to keep it. But you can't. Your Mommy would want you to give it up, so you and your brothers can be safe."

"Mine," she whimpered.

"There's another little girl out there who thinks it's hers too. It is hers, Anna. She let you have it for a little while, but now you have to give it back."

"Come on, Anna," said Aaron gently, handing Simon his video game. "Mom wants you to be safe. She loves you."

Anna released the doll, weakly. Dean handed her down to Simon, and stepped out of the circle.

"Where are you going?" Sally asked.

Dean pulled the shotgun from his waist of his jeans. "Hunting."

Sally eyed the gun. "Nuh uh. Put that up."

"Relax." He flashed her a smile. "It's rock salt. Now you all…" he checked the barrels. They were both loaded. "_Stay in that circle._ Do you hear me?"

Her nose wrinkled up. She still didn't like him. "Yes."

Dean clutched the doll in the crook of his arm, the shotgun out in front of him.

The house was dimly lit from the outside light, which was starting to pick up thanks to the storm clearing. He crouched down, tiptoeing through the house. It was eerily silent.

_She's coming…_

One of the windows rattled. A lamp on one of the end tables flickered on, then off again.

Aaron had Anna clutched tightly against him. Simon was beside them, holding up the video game screen, lighting them all in a strange green tint.

The windows behind Dean exploded.

He dove to the ground, behind an armchair. The kids screamed, ducking down, as glass flew through the room.

He peered over the side of the chair. A silvery mass was floating through the window, spreading out tendrils of aura, the bright center wafting slowly inside, near the children.

The little girl materialized before them. She stood perfectly still, then stretched her chubby hands towards Anna.

"Hey!" Dean shouted, waving the doll. "I've got your Holly Hobby right here!"

The ghost turned, her silver eyes glistening. "Mine."

"That's right, I know, mine, mine, mine. Then come over here and get it!"

She stared at him.

He felt the same force that had grabbed him by the pond seize him around his waist. He held tightly to the shotgun and the doll, trying to brace himself.

She flung him across the room, slamming him down into the dining room table. It shattered under the impact.

The room was spinning around him, and his back ached from the force of the landing. He stood weakly, raising the shotgun.

Aaron set Anna down, behind him, as the first shot was fired.

The ghost wisped away, disappearing into the air. The salt had had no effect.

_Damn…it's not going to work. What do I do first?_

He stared at the doll, still clutched in his hand. If he destroyed it, it might make her angry—very angry. She might go straight for Anna. And the salt was no guarantee in stopping such a powerful entity.

The little girl materialized in front of him again, holding out her arms for the doll. Dean stared at it worriedly.

She reached her little fingers forward, grabbing at him. "Mine."

_What the hell do I do?_

"DEAN!"

Sam burst through the door, skidding to a halt at the sight of the little girl in front of his brother. The ghost turned, catching sight of him, and shed her pleasant image. The hollow-eyed, drowned little girl roared at him, loud enough to rattle the entire house. Anna and the boys screamed.

The girl vaporized, the tendrils of her aura shooting forward.

Right at Sam.

"DEAN!" he cried, tossing something towards him.

The entity picked him off the floor, slamming him against the wall.

"SAM!"

Sam was pinned to the wall, wincing, his neck flush with the boards. The girl re-materialized again, her subtle roar still echoing through the house. Her fingers, long wisps of silver, closed around his throat.

"G-gra...ve…D…dust…" he managed to choke out.

Dean stared at the two shotgun shells in front of him. Sam had put the grave dust from ARA's grave into them.

He scrambled towards them, opening the barrels and loading one of the shells into it. One salt shell was left.

_Salt, and grave dust. That ought to be good enough._

He took aim.

The entity was right in front of Sam.

_Dammit!_

The cartridges should break upon impact, but there was no guarantee that they would explode directly at the ghost. They could hit Sam. He was too close, even for rock salt.

"Sam!"

His brother shook his head, grasping at the invisible force clutched around his throat. "SAM!"

He searched frantically around. _Where's that damn doll?_

He'd dropped it near the ruins of the table.

"Mine," said a soft voice behind him.

"NO! ANNA!" Aaron screamed.

Anna had wandered out from the salt circle, and was grabbing for the doll on the floor.

"ANNA!" Dean shouted.

The ghost immediately turned, and with a frightful roar, released Sam. He fell to the floor, rubbing his throat.

The entity materialized in front of Anna, grabbing at the doll. Anna held fast to the doll's arm.

"MINE!" roared the ghost.

Anna was screaming, playing tug-of-war with the doll's arms. "MINE!"

"ANNA!" Aaron screamed. He was being held back by Sally, who was watching the entire scene in horror.

"SAM!" Dean shouted. "SAM!"

Sam staggered to his feet at his brother's call, and nodded. Dean flipped the gun to him, then raced to the girls.

"ANNA! Let it go!" he cried.

Sam raised the shotgun.

"Let go of the doll!" Dean screamed.

"ANNA!" cried Aaron.

Anna was crying, her face red. The ghost was crying out, the windows of the house bursting around them, electricity sparking.

"Anna!"

"ANNA!"

"_ANNA. LET GO."_

Something, a voice, soft and pleasant, filled the air above them. Anna stopped tugging at the doll, glancing around. The ghost disappeared, then reformed behind her, the doll in her arms, one ragged hand reaching for Anna.

Dean dove towards her, grabbing her in his arms, and rolled away, just as Sam pulled the trigger.

Dust and rock salt exploded through the air, the main portion firing through the center of the entity. It wailed, the wind around it rising, as it dissolved into the air. In its hand, the doll's face was completely shattered.

It disappeared into itself in a single, great burst of light, taking the doll with it.

Sam panted, lowering the gun, and clutching at his ribs. Dean was rising, Anna still in his arms. There was blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

The lights in the house flickered back on. Outside, the moon burst through the clouds, shimmering down into the yard. Sally and the boys emerged from the circle. She was carrying Simon.

"You all right?" Dean asked. She nodded, her eyes wide.

"Aaron?"

"I'm cool," he said softly. Dean handed Anna down to him. She was sucking her thumb.

"What happened?" asked Sam, straightening himself. "I didn't think she'd let go."

Dean shrugged. "Dunno. I thought I heard something, but…"

"You heard my Mom," said Aaron, looking up at them. "She told her to let go."

Sam glanced at Dean. "Really? Your Mom? Are you sure?"

"It was her," said Aaron firmly. "Really. Maybe it's weird, but it was real." He smiled shakily at Dean.

Dean shrugged. "I suppose it's possible. Anything's possible. I mean, look at us. We just nearly got our asses whipped by a two-year-old girl."

Sally glared at him. Aaron and Simon both giggled.

Sam just shook his head.


	9. Chapter 9: Cherish

They packed everything up the next day. Thankfully, for Sam's sake, there wasn't a scratch on the Impala. Though he did leave out the little fact that he'd hydroplaned. You just never knew with Dean and his car.

He'd also finished explaining all the details of the Audrey Rose story to Dean, who'd just shaken his head.

"Can you imagine the power—the hate—that little girl felt towards her twin? All over a doll. Unbelievable."

"Explains probably why Annabelle didn't marry. She may have only been two, but to have the death of her sister on her head all that time…"

"I'm surprised she didn't try and kill her. You know, seek her out."

"I'm guessing she probably didn't go back to the lake house much. Considering how much her family did to cover up what really happened, I bet she didn't return until years later. By then, the ghost probably wouldn't have recognized her. Or maybe Annabelle didn't remember what had happened. Maybe she really thought she was an only child."

"I don't think so. You don't forget family, no matter how little you are."

"Yeah. I guess that's true…"

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Dean looked at him over the top of the car. "Thanks for coming back."

Sam grinned. "No problem." He hoisted himself into the passenger's seat. "I knew you couldn't handle a doll by yourself. You're a pediophobe."

Dean narrowed his eyes, sliding into the driver's side. "I am not, Sam."

"Oh, I think you are."

"I think I'm not, and you better shut it before something _really _bad happens to you."

"Fine, whatever. But I'm stopping by McAlisteer's for a memento to remember this town by."

"You say one more thing about that baby doll, and I swear to God you'll be running all the way to San Francisco."

"All right. Not another word."

"NOT ANOTHER WORD."

"Done."

"Yeah, well, good. Now hang on. We got a stop or two to make before we blow this dollhouse of horrors."

* * *

They stopped by a small general-type store—Dean had to pick up something—then drove by the Amly house one more time. Aaron was sitting on the porch; Simon sat next to him engrossed in the portable video game. Anna was in her pack and play on the front lawn, jabbering contentedly.

"Hey!" Aaron called. "My grandparents just got in at the airport. They'll be here in a few hours."

"That's good," Dean said with a smile. Sam grinned at him. "Are you ready for the cold northeast?"

"Simon'll be ready for computers again, that's for sure. My grandparents said they'd take us wherever we want to go visit. I think I might want to go see a Bo Sox game."

"Baseball. Good stuff."

"Yeah."

Sally came out onto the porch. "Oh, you two again."

"Uh, sorry about the whole 'secret identity' thing," Sam said. "Are you going to report us?"

She shook her head. "I've decided I'm not reporting a _thing. _Not only would I be the laughingstock of the department, but I'd have to deal with seeing a lot more of him," she nodded at Dean. "So I think I'd rather just pretend it didn't happen."

Dean gave her a wicked grin.

"I think in this case, pretending it didn't happen is a very good option," returned Sam.

"Anyways, we're outta here. Just wanted to stop and say goodbye," said Dean.

"Will we see you again?" asked Aaron.

"You better hope not," said Sam with a laugh.

"Eh, maybe. But don't count on it, kid." Dean mussed Aaron's hair, who smiled, then wandered over to Anna, shaking out whatever he'd bought from its plastic bag.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her. He lifted a baby doll from the bag—a new one, with a softly carved face, and dressed in a beautiful lace bunting, with a tiny lace cap. Her eyes were glassy blue, and she had gold earring in her ears.

"I know it's not Olivia, but…her name is Emily. Emily Ann. I thought it fit."

Anna reached out for it, a smile on her little face. She hugged the doll to her. After a moment, she looked back up at him. "'Tanks fyou."

Dean grinned. "You're welcome."

His grin faded when he caught Sam, Aaron, Sally and even Simon staring at him, mouths opened. "Not a word, Sam," he muttered. "Not a word."

* * *

They left a few minutes later, waving bye to the kids, Sam still laughing softly.

Dean turned onto the highway, leaving sleepy Cariño behind. Zeppelin was blasting softly on the radio. The sign, with the numbers 6,666, was still glaring at the highway.

At least Mrs. Arnette wouldn't have to see it anymore.

"So," he said after a moment. "San Francisco?"

"What's in San Francisco?"

"I thought that's where you were going," Dean muttered, glancing over at him.

"Naw."

"Then where?"

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't matter, now."

"Why?"

"It's too late. I had to be there yesterday."

"Again, why?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Sam. Come _on._ Did none of what just happened mean anything to you? You showed up, you had my back—_twice_. I owe you."

"Dean."

"You're not in this alone, Sam. You realized that. I know it. It's time you faced up to it. No matter what you do, or where you think you're going to go, I'm not going to leave you behind, and I'm not going to forget about you. No matter how much you want me to."

Sam was silent for a moment. Dean watched him, then huffed, shaking his head, and moved to turn up the radio.

"It was Palo Alto," Sam said suddenly.

He cranked the stereo down. "Palo Alto?"

"That's where Jessica is buried. Palo Alto." Sam turned to Dean. "Yesterday was our anniversary. I was going to her grave. I was going to see her parents. To…apologize, or something."

"Then let's go."

"It's too late. Yesterday was the anniversary."

"It's never too late to remember, Sam. Or to cherish something. And you owe it to yourself to talk to her parents. If it bothers you enough to want to steal _my _car, then you need to talk to them. How much do they know, anyway?"

"Not much. They think it was a fire. An accidental fire, like the fire department."

"Then you go and apologize for not saving her from that. Or at least talk about it. Don't leave things to linger in the past. Face your demons, Sammy, and move forward."

"This coming from the son of the worst 'facer of demons' in the history of demon facers."

"He's your dad too, Sam. And besides that, Dad's different from you and me."

"And why's that?"

"He didn't have me constantly bossing him around. He wouldn't let me."

Sam laughed softly. "Yes, that much is very true."

"Seriously, though. It's not going to do you any good to let the past haunt you like it haunts Dad. You have to try and put it behind you."

"I know that, it's just…"

"What?"

"It feels weird. She wasn't a part of what we are now. Of _this _life. I actually _liked_ that life, Dean. I loved it. I loved _her_. I don't want to forget her. And I don't want to involve her with this. She was the good part of my past. And I'd kinda like to keep it that way."

"Then keep it that way. No one said you had to forget that life. Or tell anyone about it. Frankly, I hope you don't. All of that 'rah-rah' swim team cheerleader type stuff is enough to bore any normal person senseless."

"Shut up."

"But…this is the life you're in _now_, whether you like it or not, and whatever happens from here on in, _I'm_ going to be a part of. Hopefully a good part, too—though I'm not going to go to chick flicks and bake cakes and talk books and crap with you."

Sam snorted. "Thank God for that."

"Well, for the important stuff. The brother-type stuff, that counts. I'll help you through that, Sam. Whether you want me to or not. You're stuck with me, bro."

"Great. Stuck with you and your doll thing."

That wiped the pleasant smile from Dean's face. "Dammit Sam! What did I tell you? I don't want to hear about that again. _EVER _ I swear I have no problems stopping this car and running you all the way to Palo Alto."

Sam laughed. "That'd be fine, just so long as I don't have to see you hitting on any more two year olds."

Dean made a face, flexing his fingers. "I'm going to pretend that we never had this conversation. I'm also going to pretend that you never took my car. I think, for your better well-being, you might want to consider that as well."

"Maybe," Sam said with a weary grin. "But you just remember—you're stuck with me, too. Bro."

* * *

Erin Moore cinched the bracelet around her thin wrist, tinkering with one of the charms. Inside the locket was a picture of her daughter, Jessica, as a rosy-cheeked baby.

She sighed. It had been a while, but she still felt the pain of Jessy's loss everyday.

Jessy's room remained untouched in their house, her pink, frilly curtains, Victorian style bed-and-chaise, and her multitude of antique dolls still in all the places Jessica had left them before her final trip to Stanford. She'd been so happy, over the holidays, visiting with her boyfriend, Sam.

Erin had really liked Sam. Dave had been particular about him, but after all, Jessica was his little girl. What father wouldn't?

There was a knock downstairs. She heard Dave answer the door, and a few moments later, he called her down. She ran a brush through her short, neatly coiffed hair, and headed for the stairs that led to the foyer.

"Oh my," she breathed.

Standing in the doorway, not but a few second after she'd thought about him…

"Sam."

"Hello, Mrs. Moore," he said awkwardly, his face heavy. There were dark circles under his eyes.

She smiled sadly at him. "Hello."

"How…are you?"

Dave coughed. "We're just fine, Sam. Why don't you come inside?" Sam nodded, moving in from the doorway. Lingering behind him was a very attractive man in a button down shirt and blue jeans, with blond hair and green eyes.

"Sam…"

"Oh. I'm sorry. Mr. and Mrs. Moore, this is my brother, Dean."

"How do you do?" she asked.

"Hi," he said. His eyes flicked to Sam, watching him apprehensively. "I'm…I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Dean. Please, feel free to join us."

"Thank you," he said, flashing her a smile.

_He has a smile that can light a room_.

Sam danced from one foot to the other, his head lowered. "I…I stopped by because….I wanted to see you. To explain, or something. I wanted to be here yesterday, because…well…"

"Yesterday was your anniversary," she said. Sam appeared startled.

"Jessy talked about it all the time," she explained. "It's okay, Sam. You can talk about it. The fire—everything. Jessy was a happy girl. There is no shame in talking about her. We try to as much as we can."

Dave Moore set his jaw, his eyes red, and nodded. "We never want to forget her."

"Neither do I," Sam choked out. A tear rolled down his cheek. "Thank you."

Dean reached out a hand to his brother's shoulder. "Thank you for seeing us."

"Of course." Elizabeth smiled at him. "Now, please, come inside, I'll put some tea on. And maybe later we can go visit Jessy."

Sam nodded. "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

END "CHERISH"


End file.
